THEY   OF   THE    HIGH    TRAILS 


BOOKS  BY 
HAMLIN  GARLAND 

THEY  OF  THE  HIGH  TRAILS.     Illustrated.     Post  8vo 

THE  FORESTER'S  DAUGHTER.     Illustrated.     Post  8vo 

VICTOR  OLLNEE'S  DISCIPLINE.     Post  8vo 

CAVANAGH — FOREST  RANGER.     Post  8vo 

MAIN-TRAVELLED  ROADS.     Post  8vo 

OTHER  MAIN-TRAVELLED  ROADS.     Post  8vo 

ROSE  OF  DUTCHER'S  COOLLY.     Post  8vo 

THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  GRAY-HORSE  TROOP.    Post  8vo 

PRAIRIE  FOLKS.     Post  8vo 

THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  GOLD-SEEKERS.     Post  8vo 

BOY  "LiFE  ON  THE  PRAIRIE.     Illustrated.     Post  8vo 

HEHPEH.     Post  8vo 

THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  STAR.     Illustrated.     Post  8vo 

MONEY  MAGIC.     Illustrated.     Post  8vo 

THE  LONG  TRAIL.     Illustrated.     Post  8vo 

THE  MOCCASIN  RANCH.     Illustrated.     Post  8vo 

THE  TYRANNY  OF  THE  DARK.     Illustrated.    Post  8vo 

THB  SHADOW  WORLD.     Post  8vo 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK 
ESTABLISHED   1817 


fSee  page  220 

'TAKE  ME  BACK— INSIDE,"  ALICE  SAID,     "i  FEEL  COLD  HERE." 


THEY  OF  THE 
HIGH   TRAILS 


HAMLIN    GARLAND 


ILLUSTRATED 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 
NEW    YORK    AND    LONDON 


THEY  OF  THE  HIGH  TRAILS 

Copyright,  1902,  1906,  1908,  1910,  1913,  1914,  1915,  by  Hamlin  Garland 

Copyright,  1916,  by  Harper  &  Brothers 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 

Published  April,  1916 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

FOREWORD ix 

I.  THE  GRUB-STAKER 3 

II.  THE  COW-BOSS 31 

III.  THE  REMITTANCE  MAN 57 

IV.  THE  LONESOME  MAN 81 

V.  THE  TRAIL  TRAMP 95 

VI.  THE  PROSPECTOR 155 

VII.  THE  OUTLAW 181 

VIII.  THE  LEASER 237 

IX.  THE  FOREST  RANGER 253 

AFTERWORD 381 


343118 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"TAKE  ME  BACK— INSIDE,"  ALICE  SAID.    "I  FEEL 

COLD  HERE" Frontispiece 

"YOU'RE  PRETTY  SWIFT,  AREN'T  You?"  SHE  SAID, 

CUTTINGLY Facing  p.  38 

THE  WOMAN  CARRIED  HERSELF  so  UNGRACEFULLY 
AND  DRESSED  so  PLAINLY  THAT  EVEN  THE 
SALOON-DOOR  LOAFERS  CAST  CONTEMPTUOUS 
GLANCES  UPON  HER 254 

THE  AUTHOR  AND  A  FOREST  RANGER "       278 


THE  AUTHOR'S  FOREWORD 

Ti/fANY  changes  have  swept  over  the  mountain  West 
l.*L  since  twenty  years  ago,  but  romance  still  clings  to 
the  high  country.  The  Grub-Staker,  hammer  in  hand, 
still  pecking  at  the  floaty  wanders  the  hills  with  hopeful 
patience,  walking  the  perilous  ledges  of  the  cliffs  in  end 
less  search  of  gold. 

The  Cow-Boss,  reckless  rear-guard  of  his  kind,  still 
urges  his  watch-eyed  bronco  across  the  roaring  streams, 
or  holds  his  milling  herd  in  the  high  parks,  but  the  Re 
mittance  Man,  wayward  son  from  across  the  seas,  is  gone. 
Roused  to  manhood  by  his  country's  call,  he  has  joined 
the  ranks  of  those  who  fight  to  save  the  shores  of  his  an 
cestral  isle. 

The  Prospector  still  pushes  his  small  pack-mule  through 
the  snow  of  glacial  passes,  seeking  the  unexplored,  and 
therefore  more  alluring,  mountain  ranges. 

The  Lonesome  Man  still  seeks  forgetfulness  of  crime  in 
the  solitude,  building  his  cabin  in  the  shadow  of  great 
peaks* 

The  Trail-Tramp,  mounted  wanderer,  horseman  of  the 
restless  heart,  still  rides  from  place  to  place,  contemptuous 
of  gold,  carrying  in  his  folded  blanket  all  the  vanishing 
traditions  of  the  wild. 

The  Fugitive  still  seeks  sanctuary  in  the  green  timber — 
finding  the  storms  of  the  granite  peaks  less  to  be  feared 
than  the  fury  of  the  law. 


The  Leaser — the  tenderfoot  hay-roller  from  the  prairies 
— still  tries  his  luck  in  some  abandoned  tunnel,  sternly 
toiling  for  his  faithful  sweetheart  in  the  low  country;  and 

The  Forest  Ranger,  hardy  son  of  the  pioneers,  repre 
senting  the  finer  social  order  of  the  future,  rides  his  lonely 
woodland  trail,  guarding  with  single-hearted  devotion  our 
splendid  communal  heritage  of  mine  and  stream. 

On  the  High  Trail,  SPRING,  1916. 


THE  GRUB-STAKER 


— hammer  in  hand,  still  pecking  at 
the  float,  wanders  the  Rockies  with 
hopeful  patience,  walking  the  peril 
ous  ledges  of  the  cli/s  in  endless 
search  of  gold. 


THEY  OF  THE   HIGH 
TRAILS 

i 

THE    GRUB-STAKER 


'""PHERE'S  gold  in  the  Sierra  Blanca  country— every- 
1  body  admits  it,"  Sherman  F.  Bidwell  was  saying 
as  the  Widow  Delaney,  who  kept  the  Palace  Home 
Cooking  Restaurant  in  the  town  of  Delaney  (named 
after  her  husband,  old  Dan  Delaney),  came  into  the 
dining-room.  Mrs.  Delaney  paused  with  a  plate  of 
steaming  potatoes,  and  her  face  was  a  mask  of  scorn 
as  she  addressed  the  group,  but  her  words  were  aimed 
especially  at  Bidwell,  who  had  just  come  in  from  the 
lower  country  to  resume  his  prospecting  up  the  gulch. 

"It's'aisy  sayin'  gould  is  in  thim  hills,  but  when  ye 
find  it  rainbows  will  be  fishin'-rods."  As  she  passed 
the  potatoes  over  Bidwell's  head  she  went  on:  "Didn't 
Dan  Delaney  break  his  blessed  neck  a-climbin'  the 
high  places  up  the  creek — to  no  purpis  includin'  that 
same  accident?  You  min  may  talk  and  talk,  but  talk 

3 


THEY   OF    THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

don't  pay  fcr  petaties  and  bacon,  mind  that.  For  eight 
years  I've  been  here  and  I'm  worse  off  to-day  than  iver 
before — an'  the  town,  phwat  is  it?  Two  saloons  and  a 
boar  din' -house — and  not  a  ton  of  ore  dug — much  less 
shipped  out.  Y'r  large  words  dig  no  dirt,  I'm  thinkin', 
Sherm  Bidwell." 

Bidwell  was  a  mild-spoken  man  who  walked  a  little 
sidewise,  with  eyes  always  on  the  ground  as  though 
ceaselessly  searching  for  pieces  of  float.  He  replied  to 
his  landlady  with  some  spirit:  "I've  chashayed  around 
these  mountains  ever  since  I  got  back  from  Californey 
in  fifty-four  and  I  know  good  rocks.  I  can't  just  lay  my 
pick  on  the  vein,  but  I'm  due  to  find  it  soon,  for  I'm 
a-gettin'  old.  Why,  consider  the  float,  it's  everywhere 
— and  you  know  there's  colors  in  every  sand-bar? 
There's  got  to  be  a  ledge  somewhere  close  by." 

The  widow  snorted.  "Hah!  Yiss,  flo-at!  Me  windy- 
sills  is  burthened  with  dirty  float — but  where's  the 
gould?" 

"  I'll  find  it,  Mrs.  Delaney — but  you  must  be  patient," 
he  mildly  replied. 

"  Pashint !  Me,  pashint !  Sure  Job  was  a  complainin' 
mill-wheel  beside  me,  Sherm  Bidwell.  Me  boarders 
have  shrunk  to  five  and  you're  one  o'  the  five — and  here 
you  are  after  another  grub-stake  to  go  picnicking  into 
the  mountains  wid.  I  know  your  smooth  tongue — sure 
I  do — but  ye're  up  against  me  determination  this  toime, 
me  prince.  Ye  don't  get  a  pound  o'  meat  nor  a  measure 
o'  flour  from  Maggie  Delaney — " 

Bidwell  sat  with  an  air  of  resigned  Christian  fortitude 
while  the  widow  delivered  herself.  To  tell  the  truth, 
he  had  listened  to  these  precise  words  before — and  re 
sented  them  only  because  spoken  publicly. 

The  other  boarders  finished  their  supper  in  silence  and 

4 


THE    GRUB-STAKER 

went  out,  but  Bidwell  lingered  to  wheedle  the  mistress 
while  she  ate  her  own  fill  at  the  splotched  and  littered 
table.  The  kerosene-lamp  stood  close  to  her  plate  and 
brought  out  the  glow  of  her  cheek  and  deepened  the 
blue  of  her  eyes  into  violet.  She  was  still  on  the  right 
side  of  forty  and  welt  cared  for. 

Bidwell  shot  a  shy  glance  at  her.  "I  like  to  stir  you 
up,  Maggie  darlin';  it  makes  you  purty  as  a  girl." 

She  caught  up  a  loaf  of  bread  and  heaved  it  at  him. 
He  caught  it  deftly  and  inquired,  guilelessly:  "Is  this 
the  first  of  my  grub-stake,  lassie?" 

"It  is  not!  'Tis  the  last  crumb  ye'll  have  of  me. 
Out  wid  ye!  Grub-stake  indade!  You  go  out  this 
night,  me  bucko!" 

Bidwell  rose  in  pretended  fright  and  shufHed  to  the 
door.  "  I  don't  need  much — a  couple  o'  sacks  o'  flour — 

She  lifted  an  arm.     "You  tramp!" 

He  slammed  the  door  just  in  time  to  prevent  a  cup 
from  flying  straight  into  his  smiling  eyes.  After  a  mo 
ment  of  silent  laughter,  and  with  a  wink  at  the  men  in 
the  "office,"  he  reopened  the  door  and  said: 

"Ye're  a  warm-hearted,  handsome  girl,  Maggie. 
Two  strips  o'  bacon — " 

A  muffled  cry  and  a  crash  caused  him  to  again  slam 
the  door  and  withdraw. 

Coming  back  to  the  middle  of  the  room,  he  took  out 
his  pipe  and  began  to  fill  it.  One  of  the  younger  men 
said: 

"You'll  get  that  grub-stake  over  the  eye;  the  widdy 
is  dangerous  to-night." 

Sherm  seemed  not  much  concerned.  Having  fired  his 
pipe,  he  took  a  piece  of  rock  from  his  pocket.  "What 
do  you  think  o'  this?"  he  inquired,  casually. 

The  other  examined  it  eagerly,  and  broke  out:  "  Jee — 

5 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

cripes !  Why,  say !  that's  jest  rotten  with  gold.  Where'd 
you  find  it?" 

"Out  in  the  hills,"  was  the  placid  reply;  "a  new 
vein — high  up." 

The  third  man  took  the  rock  and  said:  "That  vein 
has  got  to  be  low  down — that  can't  come  from  high  up. 
We're  on  the  wrong  trail.  Think  o'  Cripple  Creek — 
mine's  right  under  the  grass  on  the  hills.  Yer  can't 
fool  me." 

"But  we  know  the  veins  are  high — we've  seen  'em," 
argued  the  other  men. 

"Yes — but  they're  different  veins.  This  rock  comes 
from  lower  down." 

"What  do  you  say  to  that,  Sherm?" 

"One  guess  is  as  good  as  another,"  he  replied,  and 
moved  away  with  his  piece  of  ore. 

"The  old  man's  mighty  fly  this  evenin'.  I  wonder  if 
he  really  has  trailed  that  float  to  a  standstill.  I'd  sooner 
think  he's  stringin'  us." 

Bidwell  went  out  on  the  edge  of  the  ravine,  and  for  a 
long  time  sat  on  a  rock,  listening  to  the  roar  of  the  swift 
stream  and  looking  up  at  the  peaks  which  were  still 
covered  with  heavy  yellow  snow,  stained  with  the  im 
palpable  dust  which  the  winter  winds  had  rasped  from 
the  exposed  ledges  of  rock.  It  was  chill  in  the  canon, 
and  the  old  man  shivered  with  cold  as  well  as  with  a 
sense  of  discouragement.  For  twenty  years  he  had  regu 
larly  gone  down  into  the  valleys  in  winter  to  earn  money 
with  which  to  prospect  in  summer — all  to  no  purpose. 
For  years  Margaret  Delaney  had  been  his  very  present 
help  in  time  of  trouble,  and  now  she  had  broken  with 
him,  and  under  his  mask  of  smiling  incredulity  he  carried 
a  profoundly  disturbed  conscience.  His  benefactress  was 
in  deadly  earnest — she  meant  every  word  she  said — that 

6 


THE    GRUB-STAKER 

he  felt,  and  unless  she  relented  he  was  lost,  for  he  had 
returned  from  the  valley  this  time  without  a  dollar  to 
call  his  own.  He  had  a  big,  strong  mule  and  some 
blankets  and  a  saddle — nothing  further. 

The  wind  grew  stronger  and  keener,  roaring  down  the 
canon  with  the  breath  of  the  upper  snows,  and  the  man's 
blood  cried  out  for  a  fire  (June  stands  close  to  winter 
in  the  high  ranges  of  the  Crestones) ,  and  at  last  he  rose 
stiffly  and  returned  to  the  little  sitting-room,  where  he 
found  the  widow  in  the  midst  of  an  argument  with  her 
boarders  to  prove  that  they  were  all  fools  together  for 
hangin'  to  the  side  of  a  mountain  that  had  no  more  gould 
in  it  than  a  flatiron  or  a  loomp  o'  coal — sure  thing ! 

"What  you  goin'  to  do  about  our  assays?"  asked 
young  Johnson. 

"Assays,  is  it?  Annybody  can  have  assays — that  will 
pay  the  price.  Ye're  all  lazy  dogs  in  the  manger,  that's 
phwat  ye  air.  Ye  assay  and  want  somebody  else  to  pay 
ye  fer  the  privilege  of  workin'.  Why  don't  ye  work  yer- 
silves — ye  loots?  Sit  around  here  expectin'  some  wan 
ilse  to  shovel  gould  into  yer  hat.  Ye'll  pay  me  yer 
board — moind  that,"  she  ended,  making  a  personal  ap 
plication  of  her  theories ;  ' '  ivery  wan  o'  ye. " 

If  any  lingering  resolution  remained  in  Bidwell's  heart 
it  melted  away  as  he  listened  to  Mrs.  Delaney's  throaty 
voice  and  plain,  blunt  words.  Opening  the  door  timidly, 
he  walked  in  and  without  looking  at  the  angry  woman 
seized  upon  his  bundles,  which  lay  behind  the  door. 

The  widow's  voice  rang  out:  ''Where  ye  gawun  wid 
thim  bags?" 

Bidwell  straightened.  ' '  They're  my  bundles,  I  reckon. 
Can't  a  man  do  as  he  likes  with  his  own?" 

"Not  whin  he's  owin'  fer  board.  Put  thim  boondles 
down!" 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

The  culprit  sighed  and  sat  down  on  the  bundles. 
Even  young  Johnson  lost  his  desire  to  laugh,  for  Bidwell 
looked  pathetically  old  and  discouraged  at  the  moment, 
as  he  mildly  asked  : 

"You  wouldn't  send  a  man  out  in  the  night  without 
his  blankets,  would  you?" 

"I'd  Send  a  sneak  to  purgatory — if  I  c'u'd.  Ye  thought 
ye'd  ooze  out,  did  ye?  Nice  speciment  you  are!" 

Bidwell  was  roused.  "If  I  had  planned  to  sneak  I 
wouldn't  'a'  come  into  the  room  with  you  a-standin' 
in  the  middle  of  the  floor,"  he  replied,  with  some  firm 
ness.  "You  ordered  me  out,  didn't  you?  Well,  I'm 
goin'.  I  can't  pay  you — you  knew  that  when  you  told 
me  to  go — and  I  owe  you  a  good  deal — I  admit  that — 
but  I'm  going  to  pay  it.  But  I  must  have  a  little  time." 

The  other  men,  with  a  grateful  sense  of  delicacy,  got 
up  and  went  out,  leaving  Bidwell  free  space  to  justify 
himself  in  the  eyes  of  the  angry  woman. 

As  the  door  slammed  behind  the  last  man  the  widow 
walked  over  and  gave  Bidwell  a  cuff.  "Get  off  thim 
boondles.  Gaw  set  on  a  chair  like  a  man,  an'  not  squat 
there  like  a  baboon."  She  pitched  his  bundles  through 
an  open  door  into  a  small  bedroom.  "Ye  know  where 
yer  bed  is,  I  hope!  I  do'  know  phwat  Dan  Delaney 
w'u'd  say  to  me,  housin'  and  feedin'  the  likes  o'  you, 
but  I'll  do  it  wan  more  summer  —  and  then  ye  gaw 
flyin'.  Ye  hear  that  now!" 

And  she  threw  the  door  back  on  its  hinges  so  sharply 
that  a  knob  was  broken. 

Bidwell  went  in,  closed  the  door  gently,  and  took  to 
his  bed,  dazed  with  this  sudden  change  in  the  climate. 
"She's  come  round  before — and  surprised  me,"  he 
thought,  "but  never  so  durn  sudden  as  this.  I  hope 
she  ain't  sick  or* anything." 

8 


THE    GRUB-STAKER 

Next  morning  at  breakfast  Maggie  was  all  smiles. 
The  storm  of  the  evening  before  had  given  place  to  bril 
liant  sunshine.  She  ignored  all  winks  and  nudgings 
among  her  boarders,  and  did  not  scruple  to  point  out 
to  Bidwell  the  choicest  biscuit  on  the  plate,  and  to  hand 
him  the  fattest  slice  of  bacon,  all  of  which  he  accepted 
without  elation. 

"Old  Sherm  must  be  one  o'  these  hypnotical  chaps," 
said  Johnson  as  they  were  lighting  their  pipes  in  the 
sitting-room.  "He's  converted  the  widow  into  another 
helping.  He's  goin'  to  get  his  flour  and  bacon  all  right!" 

"You  bet  he  is,  and  anything  else  he  wants.  Beats 
me  what  she  finds  in  that  old  side-winder,  anyhow." 

"Oh,  Sherm  isn't  so  worse  if  he  had  a  decent  outfit." 

Bidwell  was  deeply  touched  by  Maggie's  clemency, 
and  would  have  put  his  feelings  into  the  best  terms  he 
was  familiar  with,  but  the  widow  stopped  him. 

"The  best  way  to  thank  me  is  to  hustle  out  and  trail 
up  that  flo-at.  If  it's  there,  find  it.  If  it's  not  there, 
give  o'er  the  search,  for  ye  are  a  gray  man,  Sherm 
Bidwell,  and  I'm  not  the  woman  I  was  eight  years 
ago." 

In  the  exaltation  of  the  moment  Bidwell  rose,  and  his 
shoulders  were  squared  as  he  said:  "I'm  a-goin',  Maggie. 
If  I  find  it  I'll  come  back  and  marry  you.  If  I  don't — 
I'll  lay  my  useless  old  bones  in  the  hills." 

"Ah — go  'long!  Don't  be  a  crazy  fool!"  she  said, 
but  her  face  flushed  with  pleasure  at  the  sincerity  of  his 
tone.  "Ye've  made  such  promises  ivery  time  before." 

"I  know  I  have,  but  I  mean  it  now." 

"Aho!  so  that's  the  way  of  it — ye  didn't  mean  it 
before?  Is  that  phwat  ye're  sayin'?" 

His  proud  pose  collapsed.  "You  know  what  I  mean — 
only  you're  such  a  tormentin'  little  devil." 

9 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

"Thank  ye  for  the  compliment,  Mr.  Bidwell." 

Bidwell  turned.  "I'm  going  after  old  Nebuchad 
nezzar,"  he  said,  firmly.  "I  can't  waste  time  on  a 
chicken-headed  woman — " 

"Out  wid  ye  before  I  break  the  measly  head  of  ye!" 
she  retorted. 

An  hour  later,  with  his  mule  packed  with  food  and 
blankets  and  tools,  he  moved  off  up  the  trail.  The  other 
men  stood  to  watch  him  go,  consumed  with  curiosity, 
yet  withholding  all  question. 

The  widow  did  not  so  much  as  look  from  the  door  as 
her  grub-staker  disappeared. 

ii 

Three  days  later  Bidwell  crept  stealthily  down  the 
trail,  leading  his  mule  as  silently  as  possible.  He  timed 
his  arrival  so  that  Mrs.  Delaney  would  be  in  the  kitchen 
alone  with  the  Chinaman,  getting  the  dishes  ready  for 
breakfast. 

"Who  is  ut?"  called  the  widow  as  he  softly  knocked. 

"Me— Sherm,"  he  replied. 

' '  Saints  in  hevin !  What's  the  matter  ?  Are  ye  sick  ?' ' 
she  gasped  as  she  flung  the  door  open. 

"'Sh!  Don't  speak  so  loud,"  he  commanded.  "Sit 
down;  I  want  to  speak  solemn-like  to  you." 

His  tone  impressed  her  deeply.  "Have  ye  struck 
ut?"  she  asked,  tremulously. 

"I  hain't  found  it  yet,  but  I  want  to  tell  ye — I  believe 
I've  had  a  hunch.  Send  the  'chink'  away." 

Something  in  his  tone  stopped  all  scornful  words  upon 
her  lips.  Ordering  the  Chinaman  to  bed,  she  turned 
and  asked: 

* '  Phwat  do  ye  mean  ?    Spake,  man !' ' 
10 


THE   GRUB-STAKER 

"Well,  sir,  as  I  started  up  the  trail  something  kept 
sayin'  to  me,  'Sherman,  you're  on  the  wrong  track.' 
It  was  just  as  if  you  pulled  my  sleeve  and  nudged  me 
and  said,  '  This  way !'  I  couldn't  sleep  that  night.  I 
just  lay  on  the  ground  and  figured.  Up  there  high — 
terrible  high — are  seams  of  ore — I  know  that — but  they're 
in  granite  and  hard  to  get  at.  That's  one  gold  belt. 
There's  money  in  a  mine  up  there,  but  it  will  take  money 
to  get  it.  Then  there's  another  gold  belt  down  about 
here — or  even  lower — and  I've  just  come  to  the  con 
clusion  that  our  mine,  Maggie,  is  down  here  in  the  foot 
hills,  not  on  old  Blanca." 

The  air  of  mystery  which  enveloped  and  transformed 
the  man  had  its  effect  on  the  woman.  Her  eyes  opened 
wide. 

"Was  it  a  voice  like?" 

"No,  it  was  more  like  a  pull.  Seemed  to  be  pulling 
me  to  cross  the  creek  where  I  found  that  chunk  of  por- 
ph'ritic  limestone.  I  couldn't  sleep  the  second  night — 
and  I've  been  in  camp  up  there  in  Burro  Park  tryin'  to 
figure  it  all  out.  I  hated  to  give  up  and  come  back — I 
was  afraid  ye'd  think  I  was  weakening — but  I  can't 
help  it.  Now  I'll  tell  you  what  I'm  going  to  do — I'm 
going  to  make  a  camp  over  on  the  north  side  of  the 
creek.  I  don't  want  the  boys  to  know  where  I've 
gone,  but  I  wanted  you  to  know  what  I'm  doing — I 
wanted  you  to  know  —  it's  plum  ghostly  —  it  scared 
me." 

She  whispered,  "Mebbe  it's  Dan" 

"I  thought  o'  that.  Him  and  me  were  always  good 
friends,  and  he  was  in  my  mind  all  the  while." 

"But  howld  on,  Sherm;  it  may  be  the  divil  leadin'  ye 
on  to  break  y'r  neck  as  did  Dan.  'Twas  over  there 
he  fell." 

ii 


THEY   OF    THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

"Well,  I  thought  o'  that,  too.  It's  either  Dan  or  the 
devil,  and  I'm  going  to  find  out  which." 

"The  saints  go  wid  ye!"  said  the  widow,  all  her  super 
stitious  fears  aroused.  "And  if  it  is  Dan  he'll  sure  be 
good  to  you  fer  my  sake." 

in 

Sierra  Blanca  is  the  prodigious  triple-turreted  tower 
which  stands  at  the  southern  elbow  of  the  Sangre  de 
Cristo  range.  It  is  a  massive  but  symmetrical  moun 
tain,  with  three  peaks  so  nearly  of  the  same  altitude  that 
the  central  dome  seems  the  lowest  of  them  all,  though  it 
is  actually  fourteen  thousand  four  hundred  and  eighty 
feet  above  the  sea.  On  the  west  and  south  this  great 
mass  rises  from  the  flat,  dry  floor  of  the  San  Luis  Valley 
in  sweeping,  curving  lines,  and  the  pifions  cover  these 
lower  slopes  like  a  robe  of  bronze  green. 

At  eight  thousand  feet  above  the  sea  these  suave  lines 
become  broken.  The  pifions  give  place  to  pine  and  fir, 
and  the  somber  canons  begin  toyawn.  It  was  just  here, 
where  the  grassy  hills  began  to  break  into  savage  walls, 
that  Bidwell  made  his  camp  beside  a  small  stream  which 
fell  away  into  Bear  Creek  to  the  south.  From  this  camp 
he  could  look  far  out  on  the  violet  and  gold  of  the  valley, 
and  see  the  railway  trains  pass  like  swift  and  monstrous 
dragons.  He  could  dimly  see  the  lights  of  Las  Animas 
also,  and  this  led  him  to  conceal  his  own  camp-fire. 

Each  day  he  rode  forth,  skirting  the  cliffs,  examining 
every  bit  of  rock  which  showed  the  slightest  mineral 
stain.  Scarcely  a  moment  of  the  daylight  was  wasted 
in  this  search.  His  mysterious  guide  no  longer  touched 
him,  and  this  he  took  to  be  a  favorable  omen.  "  I'm  near 
it,"  he  said. 

12 


THE    GRUB-STAKER 

One  day  he  hitched  his  mule  to  a  small  dead  pine  at 
the  foot  of  a  steep  cliff,  and  was  climbing  to  the  sum 
mit  when  a  stone,  dislodged  by  his  feet,  fell,  bounced, 
thumped  the  mule  in  the  ribs,  and  so  scared  the  ani 
mal  that  he  pulled  up  the  tree  and  ran  away. 

Angry  and  dispirited  (for  he  was  hungry  and  tired) 
Bidwell  clambered  down  and  began  to  trail  the  mule 
toward  camp.  The  tree  soon  clogged  the  runaway  and 
brought  him  to  a  stand  in  a  thicket  of  willows. 

As  Bidwell  knelt  to  untie  the  rope  his  keen  eyes  de 
tected  the  glitter  of  gold  in  the  dirt  which  still  clung  to 
the  moist  root  of  the  pine.  With  a  sudden  conviction  of 
having  unearthed  his  fortune,  the  miner  sprang  to  his 
saddle  and  hurried  back  to  the  spot  whence  the  tree 
had  been  rived.  It  was  dusk  by  the  time  he  reached  the 
spot,  but  he  could  detect  gold  in  the  friable  rock  which 
lined  the  cavity  left  by  the  uprooted  sapling.  With  a 
mind  too  excited  to  sleep  he  determined  to  stay  with  his 
find  till  morning.  To  leave  it  involved  no  real  risk  of 
losing  it,  and  yet  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  even 
build  a  camp-fire,  for  fear  some  one  might  be  drawn 
from  the  darkness  to  dispute  his  claim. 

It  was  a  terribly  long  night,  and  when  old  Blanca's 
southern  peak  began  to  gleam  out  of  the  purple  receding 
waves  of  the  night  the  man's  brain  was  numb  with  specu 
lation  and  suspense.  Hovering  over  the  little  heap  of 
broken  rock  which  he  had  scooped  out  with  his  hands, 
he  waited  in  almost  frenzied  impatience  for  the  sun. 

He  could  tell  by  the  feeling  that  the  ore  was  what 
miners  of  his  grade  call  ''rotten  quartz,"  and  he  knew 
that  it  often  held  free  gold  in  enormous  richness.  It  was 
so  friable  he  could  crumble  it  in  his  hands,  and  so  yellow 
with  iron-stains  that  it  looked  like  lumps  of  clay  as  the 
dawn  light  came.  A  stranger  happening  upon  him 

13 


THEY   OF    THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

would  have  feared  for  his  reason,  so  pale  was  his  face,  so 
bloodshot  his  eyes. 

At  last  he  could  again  detect  the  gleam  of  gold.  Each 
moment  as  the  light  grew  the  value  of  the  ore  increased. 
It  was  literally  meshed  with  rusty  free  gold.  The  whole 
mound  was  made  up  of  a  disintegrated  ledge  of  porphyry 
and  thousands  of  dollars  were  in  sight.  As  his  mind 
grasped  these  facts  the  miner  rose  and  danced — but  he 
did  not  shout! 

All  that  day  he  worked  swiftly,  silently,  like  an  animal 
seeking  to  escape  an  enemy,  digging  out  this  rock  and 
carrying  it  to  a  place  of  concealment  in  a  deep  thicket 
not  far  away.  He  did  not  stop  to  eat  or  drink  till  mid- 
afternoon,  and  then  only  because  he  was  staggering  with 
weakness  and  his  hands  were  growing  ineffective.  After 
eating  he  fell  asleep  and  did  not  wake  till  deep  in  the 
night.  For  some  minutes  he  could  not  remember  what 
had  happened  to  him.  At  last  his  good  fortune  grew  real 
again.  Saddling  his  mule,  he  rode  up  the  creek  and 
crossed  miles  above  his  newly  discovered  mine,  in  order 
to  conceal  his  trail,  and  it  was  well  toward  dawn  before 
he  tapped  on  the  widow's  window. 

"Is  that  you,  Sherm?"  she  asked. 

"Yes.     Get  up  quick;    I  have  news!" 

When  she  opened  the  kitchen  door  for  him  she  started 
back.  "For  love  of  God,  man,  phwat  have  you  been 
doin'  wid  yersilf  ?" 

"Be  quiet!"  he  commanded,  sharply,  and  crept  in, 
staggering  under  the  weight  of  a  blanket  full  of  ore. 
"You  needn't  work  any  more,  Maggie;  I've  got  it. 
Here  it  is!" 

"Man,  ye're  crazy!  What  have  you  there?  Not 
gould!" 

"You  bet  it  is!  Quartz  jest  rotten  with  gold.  Where 
14 


THE   GRUB-STAKER 

can  I  hide  it  ?"  His  manner  would  not  have  been  wilder 
had  his  bag  of  ore  been  the  body  of  a  man  he  had  mur 
dered.  ' '  Quick !  It's  almost  daylight. ' ' 

"Let  me  see  ut.     I  do  not  believe  ut." 

He  untied  the  blanket,  and  as  the  corners  unrolled, 
disclosing  the  red-brown  mass,  even  her  unskilled  eyes 
could  see  the  gleaming  grains  of  pure  metal.  She  fell  on 
her  knees  and  crossed  herself. 

"  Praise  be  to  Mary !   Where  did  ye  find  ut — and  how  ?" 

"Not  a  word  about  that.  I'm  scared.  If  any  one 
should  find  it  while  I  am  away  they  could  steal  thousands 
of  dollars.  Why,  it's  like  a  pocket  in  a  placer !  Get  me 
every  sack  you  can.  Give  me  grub — and  hide  this. 
There  are  tons  of  it !  This  is  the  best  of  it.  We  are  rich 
— rich  as  Jews,  Maggie!" 

They  worked  swiftly.  The  widow  emptied  a  cracker- 
barrel  and  put  the  ore  at  the  bottom,  and  then  tumbled 
the  crackers  in  on  top  of  the  ore.  She  set  out  some  cold 
meat  and  bread  and  butter,  and  while  Bidwell  ate  she 
brought  out  every  rag  that  could  serve  as  a  sack. 

"I'll  have  more  for  ye  to-morrow.  I  wish  I  c'u'd  go 
wid  ye,  Sherm.  I'd  like  to  set  me  claws  at  work  at  that 
dirt." 

"I  need  help,  but  I  am  afraid  to  have  a  man.  Well, 
I  must  be  off.  Good-by.  I'll  be  back  to-night  with  an 
other  load.  I  guess  old  Sherm  is  worth  a  kiss  yet — eh — 
Maggie!" 

"Be  off  wid  ye.  Can't  ye  see  the  dawn  is  comin'?" 
A  moment  later  she  ran  up  to  him  and  gave  him  a  great 
hug.  ' '  There — now  haste  ye !' ' 

"Be  silent!" 

"As  the  grave  itself!"  she  replied,  and  turned  to  brush 
up  the  cracker-crumbs.  "That  Chinese  divil  has  sharp 
eyes,"  she  muttered. 


THEY   OF    THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

IV 

It  was  inevitable  that  the  golden  secret  should  escape. 
Others  besides  the  Chinese  cook  had  sharp  eyes,  and  the 
Widow  Delaney  grew  paler  and  more  irritable  as  the 
days  wore  on.  She  had  a  hunted  look.  She  hardly  ever 
left  her  kitchen,  it  was  observed,  and  her  bedroom  door 
had  a  new  lock.  Every  second  night  Bidwell,  gaunt  and 
ragged,  and  furtive  as  a  burglar,  brought  a  staggering 
mule-load  of  the  richest  ore  and  stowed  it  away  under 
the  shanty  floor  and  in  the  widow's  bedroom.  Luckily 
miners  are  sound  sleepers,  or  the  two  midnight  marauders 
would  have  been  discovered  on  the  second  night. 

One  day  John,  the  cook,  seized  the  cracker-barrel,  in 
tending  to  put  it  into  a  different  corner.  He  gave  it  a 
slight  wrench,  looked  a  little  surprised,  and  lifted  a  little 
stronger.  It  did  not  budge.  He  remarked: 

"Klackels  belly  hebby.  No  sabbe  klackels  allee  same 
deese." 

"Let  that  alone!"  screamed  Mrs.  Delaney.  "Phwat 
will  ye  be  doin'  nixt,  ye  squint-eyed  monkey?  I'll  tell 
ye  whin  to  stir  things  about." 

The  startled  Chinaman  gave  way  in  profound  dismay. 
"Me  goin'  s'eep  lound  klackel-ballell,  you  sabbe?" 

"Well,  I'll  do  the  sweepin'  there.  I  nailed  that 
barrel  to  the  flure  apurpis.  L'ave  it  alone,  will  ye?" 

This  incident  decided  her.  That  night,  when  Bid- 
well  came,  she  broke  out: 

"Sherm,  I  cannot  stand  this  anny  longer.  I'm  that 
nairvous  I  can't  hear  a  fly  buzz  widout  hot  streaks 
chasin'  up  and  down  me  spine  like  little  red  snakes. 
And  man,  luk  at  yersilf.  Why,  ye're  hairy  as  a  go-at  and 
yer  eyes  are  loike  two  white  onions.  I  say  stop,  Sherm 
dear!" 

16 


THE   GRUB-STAKER 

"What  '11  we  do?"  asked  Bidwcll  in  alarm. 

"  Do?  I'll  tell  ye  phwat  we'll  do.  We'll  put  our  feets 
down  and  say,  'Yis,  'tis  true,  we've  shtruck  ut,  and 
it's  ours.'  Then  I'll  get  a  team  from  Las  Animas  and 
load  the  stuff  in  before  the  face  and  eyes  of  the  world, 
and  go  wid  it  to  sell  it,  whilst  you  load  y'r  gun  an'  stand 
guard  over  the  hole  in  the  ground.  I'm  fair  crazy  wid 
this  burglar's  business.  We're  both  as  thin  as  quakiii' 
asps  and  full  as  shaky.  You  go  down  the  trail  this  min 
ute  and  bring  a  team  and  a  strong  wagon — no  wan  will 
know  till  ye  drive  in.  Now  go!" 

Bidwell  was  ruled  by  her  clear  and  sensible  words, 
and  rode  away  into  the  clear  dark  of  the  summer's  night 
with  a  feeling  that  it  was  all  a  dream — a  vision  such  as 
he  had  often  had  while  prospecting  in  the  mountains; 
but,  as  day  came  on  and  he  looked  back  upon  the  red 
hole  he  had  made  in  the  green  hillside,  the  reality  of  it 
all  came  to  pinch  his  heart  and  make  him  gasp.  His 
storehouse,  his  well  of  golden  waters,  was  unguarded, 
and  open  to  the  view  of  any  one  who  should  chance  to 
look  that  way.  He  beat  his  old  mule  to  a  gallop  in  the 
frenzy  of  the  moment. 

The  widow  meanwhile  got  breakfast  for  the  men,  and 
as  soon  as  they  were  off  up  the  trail  she  set  the  awed  and 
wondering  Chinaman  to  hauling  the  sacks  of  ore  out 
from  beneath  the  shanty  and  piling  them  conveniently 
near  the  roadway.  She  watched  every  movement  and 
checked  off  each  sack  like  a  shipping-clerk  "Merciful 
powers!  the  work  that  man  did!"  she  exclaimed,  allud 
ing  to  Bidwell,  who  had  dug  all  that  mass  of  ore 
and  packed  it  in  the  night  from  the  mine  to  its  safe 
concealment. 

Of  course,  Mrs.  Clark,  the  storekeeper's  wife,  saw  them 
at  work  and  came  over  to  see  what  was  going  on. 


THEY   OF   THE   HIGH   TRAILS 

"Good  morning,  Mrs.  Delaney.  You're  not  going  to 
move?" 

"  I  am." 

"I'm  sorry.  What's  the  reason  of  it?  Why,  that 
looks  like  ore!"  she  said  as  she  peered  at  a  sack. 

"It  is  ore!  and  I'm  goin'  to  ship  it  to  the  mill.  Have 
ye  anny  objection?"  asked  Mrs.  Delaney,  defiantly. 

"Where  did  it  come  from?" 

' '  That's  my  business.  There's  wan  more  under  there," 
she  said  to  the  Chinaman,  and  as  he  came  creeping  out 
like  a  monstrous  bug  tugging  a  pair  of  Bidwell's  overalls 
(ore-filled),  as  if  they  formed  the  trunk  of  a  man  whom 
he  had  murdered  and  hidden,  Mrs.  Clark  turned  and 
fled  toward  the  store  to  tell  her  husband. 

"There  ye  go,  now!  Ye  screech-owl,"  sneered  the 
Widow  Delaney.  "It's  all  up  wid  us;  soon  the  whole 
world  will  know  of  ut.  Well — we're  here  first,"  she  de 
fiantly  added. 

Clark  came  over,  pale  with  excitement.  "Let  me  see 
that  ore!"  he  called  out  as  he  ran  up  and  laid  his  hand 
on  a  sack. 

"Get  off — and  stay  off!"  said  Maggie,  whipping  a  re 
volver  out  of  her  pocket.  "That's  my  ore,  and  you  let 
it  alone!" 

Clark  recoiled  in  surprise,  but  the  widow's  anxiety  to 
protect  her  property  added  enormously  to  his  excitement. 
"The  ore  must  be  very  rich,"  he  argued.  "How  do  I 
know  but  that  comes  from  one  of  my  claims?"  he  asked. 

The  widow  thrust  the  muzzle  of  the  revolver  under 
his  nose.  "Would  ye  call  me  a  thafe?  'Tis  well  Bid- 
well  is  not  here;  he'd  do  more  than  make  ye  smell  of 
a  gun.  Go  back  to  yer  own  business — if  ye  value  a  whole 
skin — an'  stay  away  from  phwat  does  not  concern  ye." 

All  this  was  characteristically  intemperate  of  Maggie, 

18 


THE    GRUB-STAKER 

and  by  the  time  Bidwell  came  clattering  up  the  trail 
with  a  big  freight-wagon  the  whole  gulch  was  aroused, 
and  a  dozen  men  encircled  the  heap  of  motley  bags  on 
which  Mrs.  Delaney  sat,  keeping  them  at  bay. 

When  she  heard  the  wagon  her  nerves  steadied  a  little 
and  she  said,  more  soberly:  "Boys,  there  comes  Bidwell 
with  a  wagon  to  haul  this  stuff  away,  and,  Johnson,  you 
help  him  load  it  while  I  go  see  about  dinner." 

As  Bidwell  drove  up  a  mutter  of  amazement  ran  round 
the  group  and  each  man  had  his  say. 

"Why,  Bid,  what's  the  matter?  You  look  like  a  man 
found  dead." 

"I'm  just  beginning  to  live!"  said  Bidwell,  and  the 
reply  was  long  remembered  in  Bear  Gulch. 

"Well,  now  ye  know  all  about  it,  ye  gawks,  take  hold 
and  help  the  man  load  up.  I'll  have  dinner  ready  fer 
ye  in  a  snort,"  repeated  the  widow. 

Clark  drew  his  partners  aside.  "He  packed  that  ore 
here;  he  must  have  left  a  trail.  You  take  a  turn  up  the 
canon  and  see  if  you  can't  find  it.  It's  close  by  some 
where." 

Bidwell  saw  them  conferring  and  called  out:  "You 
needn't  take  any  trouble,  Clark;  I'll  lead  you  to  the 
place  after  dinner.  My  claim  is  staked  and  application 
filed — so  don't  try  any  tricks  on  me." 

The  widow's  eyes  were  equally  keen,  and  the  growing 
cupidity  of  the  men  did  not  escape  her.  Coming  out 
with  a  big  meat  sandwich,  she  said:  "'Twill  not  do  to 
sit  down,  Sherm;  take  this  in  yer  fist  and  go.  They'll 
all  be  slippin'  away  like  snakes  if  ye  don't.  I'll  take 
John  and  the  ore — we'll  make  it  somehow — and  I'll  stay 
wid  it  till  it's  paid  for." 

She  was  right.  The  miners  were  struggling  with  the 
demons  of  desire  and  ready  to  stampede  at  any  mo 

19 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

ment.  Hastily  packing  his  mule,  Bidwell  started  up 
the  trail,  saying: 

"Fall  in  behind  me,  boys,  and  don't  scrouge.  The 
man  who  tries  to  crowd  me  off  the  trail  will  regret  it." 

They  were  quiet  enough  till  he  left  the  trail  and  started 
down  toward  the  Bear.  Then  Johnson  cried,  "I  know 
where  it  is!"  and  plunged  with  a  whoop  into  the  thicket 
of  willows  that  bordered  the  creek. 

"Mebbe  he  does  and  mebbe  he  don't,"  said  Clark. 
"I'm  going  to  stick  by  Bid  till  we  get  the  lay  o'  the  land." 

They  maintained  fairly  good  order  until  Bidwell 's 
trail  became  a  plain  line  leading  up  the  hillside;  then 
the  stampede  began.  With  wild  halloos  and  resounding 
thwacking  of  mules  they  scattered  out,  raced  over  the 
hilltop,  and  disappeared,  leaving  Bidwell  to  plod  on  with 
his  laden  burro. 

When  he  came  in  sight  of  his  mine  men  were  hammer 
ing  stakes  into  the  ground  on  all  sides  of  the  discovery 
claim,  and  Clark  and  Johnson  were  in  a  loud  wrangle  as 
to  who  reached  the  spot  first.  Leading  his  mule  up  to 
the  cliff  wall  where  he  had  built  a  shelter,  Bidwell  un 
packed  his  outfit,  and  as  he  stood  his  rifle  against  a  rock 
he  said : 

"  I'm  planted  right  here,  neighbors.  My  roots  run  deep 
underground,  and  the  man  who  tries  to  jump  this  claim 
will  land  in  the  middle  of  hell  fire — now,  that's  right." 

Their  claims  once  staked  and  their  loud  differences 
stilled,  the  men  had  leisure  to  come  and  examine  the 
discovery  claim. 

"You've  the  best  of  it,"  said  Cantor,  an  old  miner. 
"There  may  not  be  an  ounce  of  gold  outside  your  vein. 
It's  a  curious  formation;  I  can't  tell  how  it  runs." 

Toward  night  the  other  miners  left  and  went  back  to 
camp,  leaving  Bidwell  alone.  As  darkness  came  on  he 

20 


THE    GRUB-STAKER 

grew  nervous  again.  "They'd  kill  me  if  they  dared," 
he  muttered,  as  he  crouched  in  his  shelter,  his  gun  on  his 
knee.  He  was  very  sleepy,  but  resolved  not  to  close  his 
eyes.  "If  I  only  had  a  dog — some  one  I  could  trust; 
but  I  haven't  a  soul,"  he  added,  bitterly,  as  his  weakness 
grew.  The  curse  of  gold  sat  heavily  upon  him  and  his 
hands  were  lax  with  weariness. 

"I  was  a  fool  to  let  Maggie  go  off  with  that  ore,"  he 
muttered,  his  mind  following  the  widow  in  her  perilous 
journey  down  the  gulch.  He  did  not  distrust  her;  he 
only  feared  her  ability  to  override  the  difficulties  of  her 
mission.  For  the  best  part  of  his  life  he  had  sought  the 
metal  beneath  his  feet,  and,  now  that  he  had  found  it, 
his  blood  ran  cold  with  suspicion  and  fear. 

Daylight  brought  a  comparative  sense  of  safety,  and, 
building  a  fire,  he  cooked  his  breakfast  in  peace — 
though  his  eyes  were  restless.  "Oh,  they'll  come,"  he 
said,  aloud.  "They'll  boil  in  here  on  me  in  another  hour 
or  two." 

And  they  did.  The  men  from  Delaney  came  first, 
followed  a  little  later  by  their  partners  from  the  high 
gulches,  and  after  them  the  genuine  stampeders.  The 
merchants,  clerks,  hired  hands,  barbers,  hostlers,  and 
half-starved  lawyers  from  the  valley  towns  came  pour 
ing  up  the  trail  and,  pausing  just  long  enough  to  see  the 
shine  of  gold  in  Bidwcll's  dump,  flung  themselves  upon 
the  land,  seizing  the  first  unclaimed  contiguous  claim 
without  regard  to  its  character  or  formation.  Their 
stakes  once  set,  they  began  to  roam,  pawing  at  the  earth 
like  prairie-dogs  and  quite  as  ineffectually.  Swarms  of 
the  most  curious  surrounded  Bidwell's  hole  in  the 
ground,  picking  at  the  ore  and  flooding  the  air  with 
shouts  arid  questions  till  the  old  man  in  desperation 
ordered  them  off  his  premises  and  set  up  a  notice: 

21 


THEY   OF   THE   HIGH   TRAILS 

"Keep  off  this  ground  or  meet  trouble!" 

To  his  friends  he  explained,  "Every  piece  of  rock  they 
carry  off  is  worth  so  much  money." 

"Ye've  enough  here  to  buy  the  warrld,  mon,"  pro 
tested  Angus  Craig,  an  old  miner  from  the  north. 

"I  don't  know  whether  I  have  or  not,"  said  Bidwell. 
"It  may  be  just  a  little  spatter  of  gold." 

That  night  the  whole  range  of  foot-hills  was  noisy  with 
voices  and  sparkling  with  camp-fires.  From  the  treeless 
valleys  below  these  lights  could  be  seen,  and  the  heavily 
laden  trains  of  the  San  Luis  Accommodation  trailed  a 
loud  hallelujah  as  the  incoming  prospectors  lifted  their 
voices  in  joyous  greeting  to  those  on  the  mountainside. 

"It's  another  Cripple  Creek!"  one  man  shouted,  and 
the  cry  struck  home.  "We're  in  on  it,"  they  all  exulted. 

Bidwell  did  not  underestimate  his  importance  in  this 
rush  of  gold-frenzied  men.  He  was  appalled  by  the 
depth  and  power  of  the  streams  centering  upon  him. 
For  weeks  he  had  toiled  to  the  full  stretch  of  his  powers 
without  sufficient  sleep,  and  he  was  deathly  weary, 
emaciated  to  the  bone,  and  trembling  with  nervous  weak 
ness,  but  he  was  indomitable.  A  long  life  of  camping, 
prospecting,  and  trenching  had  fitted  him  to  withstand 
even  this  strain,  and  to  "stay  with  it"  was  an  instinct 
with  him.  Therefore  he  built  a  big  fire  not  far  from  the 
mine  and  spread  his  blankets  there;  but  he  did  not  lie 
down  till  after  midnight,  and  only  then  because  he 
could  not  keep  awake,  even  while  in  sitting  posture. 
"I  must  sleep,  anyhow,"  he  muttered.  "I  can't  stand 
this  any  longer.  I  must  sleep" — And  so  his  eyes  closed. 

He  was  awakened  by  a  voice  he  knew  calling  out :  "Is 
this  the  way  ye  watch  y'r  mine,  Sherm  Bidwell?"  And, 
looking  up,  he  saw  the  Widow  Delaney  sitting  astride  a 
mule  and  looking  down  at  him  with  tender  amusement. 

22 


THE    GRUB-STAKER 

"Ye  are  a  pitcher;  sure!  Ye  look  like  wan  o'  the  holy 
saints  of  ould — or  a  tramp.  Help  me  off  this  baste  and 
I'll  turn  to  and  scorch  a  breakfast  for  ye." 

He  staggered  stiffly  to  his  feet  and  awkwardly  ap 
proached  her.  "I  had  only  just  dropped  off,"  he 
apologized. 

"Ye  poor  lad!"  she  said,  compassionately.  "Ye're 
stiff  as  a  poker  wid  cold." 

"How  did  ye  come  out  with  the  ore?"  he  asked. 

"Thrust  y'r  Maggie!  I  saw  it  loaded  into  a  car  and 
sent  away.  Bedad,  I  had  a  moind  to  go  wid  it  to  the 
mill,  but  I  says,  Sherm  nor  mesilf  can  be  in  two  places 
to  wanst.  So  I  gave  o'er  the  notion  and  came  home. 
They'll  thieve  the  half  of  it,  av  coorse,  but  so  goes  the 
world,  divil  catch  it!" 

The  widow  was  a  powerful  reinforcement.  She  got 
breakfast  while  Bidwell  dozed  again,  and  with  the  in 
fluence  of  hot  coffee  and  the  genial  sun  the  firm  grew 
confident  of  holding  at  least  the  major  part  of  their 
monstrous  good  luck. 

"Thrust  no  wan  but  me,"  said  the  widow  in  decisive 
warning.  "The  world  is  full  of  rogues.  From  this 
toime  ivery  man's  hand  is  agin'  y'r  gold — schamin'  to 
reach  y'r  pockets.  Rest  yersilf  and  I'll  look  after  the 
gould.  From  this  toime  on  we  work  only  wid  our 
brains." 

She  did  indeed  become  the  captain.  On  her  advice 
he  sent  a  man  for  ore-sacks  and  tools,  while  other  willing 
hands  set  to  work  to  build  a  cabin  to  shelter  them. 

"We're  takin'  no  chances,"  she  said;  "we  camp  right 
here." 

That  day  Las  Animas,  Crestone,  Powder  Gulch,  and 
Los  Gatos  emptied  themselves  upon  the  hills,  and  among 
them  were  representatives  of  big  firms  in  Denver, 
3  23 


THEY    OF    THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

Colorado  Springs,  and  Pueblo.  The  path  past  the  Mag 
gie  Mine  was  worn  deep  by  the  feet  of  the  gold-seekers, 
and  Bidwell's  rude  pole  barrier  was  polished  by  the 
nervous  touch  of  greedy  palms. 

About  ten  o'clock  a  quiet  man  in  a  gray  suit  of  clothes 
asked  Bidwell  if  he  wanted  to  sell.  Bidwell  said  "No," 
short  and  curt,  but  Maggie  asked,  with  a  smile,  "How 
much?" 

"Enough  to  make  you  comfortable  for  life.  If  it  runs 
as  well  as  this  sample  I'll  chance  fifty  thousand  dollars 
on  it." 

Maggie  snorted.  "Fifty  thousand!  Why,  I  tuk 
twoice  that  to  the  mill  last  night." 

"Let  me  get  in  and  examine  the  mine  a  little  closer. 
I  may  be  able  to  raise  my  bid." 

"Not  till  ye  make  it  wan  hundred  thousand  may  you 
even  have  a  luk  at  it,"  she  replied. 

Other  agents  came — some  confidential,  others  coldly 
critical,  but  all  equally  unsuccessful.  The  two  "idiots" 
could  not  see  why  they  should  turn  over  the  gold  which 
lay  there  in  sight  to  a  syndicate.  It  was  theirs  by 
every  right,  and  though  the  offers  went  far  beyond  their 
conception  they  refused  to  consider  them. 

All  day  axes  resounded  in  the  firs,  and  picks  were  busy 
in  the  gullies.  Camp  goods,  provisions,  and  bedding 
streamed  by  on  trains  of  mules,  and  by  nightfall  a  city 
was  in  its  initial  stages — tent  stores,  open-air  saloons, 
eating-booths,  and  canvas  hotels.  A  few  of  the  swarm 
ing  incomers  were  skeptical  of  the  find,  but  the  larger 
number  were  hilariously  boastful  of  their  locations,  and 
around  their  evening  camp-fires  groups  gathered  to 
exult  over  their  potentialities. 

The  sun  had  set,  but  the  western  slope  of  the  hill  was 
still  brilliant  with  light  as  Bidwell's  messenger  with  his 

24 


THE    GRUB-STAKER 

sumpter  horse  piled  high  with  bales  of  ore-sacks  came 
round  the  clump  of  firs  at  the  corner  of  Bidwell's  claim. 
He  was  followed  by  a  tall  man  who  rode  with  a  tired 
droop  and  nervous  clutching  at  the  rein. 

Bidwell  stared  and  exclaimed,  "May  I  be  shot  if  the 
preachers  aren't  takin'  a  hand  in  the  rush!" 

The  widow  looked  unwontedly  rosy  as  she  conclusively 
said,  "I  sent  for  him,  man  dear!" 

"You  did?    What  for?" 

The  widow  was  close  enough  now  to  put  her  hand  in 
the  crook  of  his  elbow.  "To  make  us  wan,  Sherm  dar- 
lin'.  There's  no  time  like  the  priscnt." 

Bidwell  tugged  at-  his  ragged  beard.  "I  wish  I  had 
time  to  slick  up  a  bit." 

"There'll  be  plinty  of  time  for  that  afterward,"  she 
said.  "Go  welcome  the  minister." 

In  the  presence  of  old  Angus  Craig  and  young  Johnson 
they  were  married,  and  when  the  minister  gave  Mrs. 
Bidwell  a  rousing  smack  she  wiped  her  lips  with  the 
back  of  her  hand  and  said  to  Bidwell: 

"Now  we're  ayqul  partners,  Sherm,  and  all  old  scores 
wiped  out." 

And  old  Angus  wagged  his  head  and  said,  "Canny 
lass,  the  widdy!" 

When  the  news  of  this  marriage  reached  the  camp 
demons  of  laughter  and  disorder  were  let  loose.  Start 
ing  from  somewhere  afar  off,  a  loud  procession  formed. 
With  camp-kettles  for  drums  and  aspen-bark  whistles 
for  pipes,  with  caterwaul  and  halloo,  the  whole  loosely 
cohering  army  of  prospectors  surrounded  the  little  log 
cabin  of  the  Maggie  Mine  and  shouted  in  wild  discord: 

"Bidwell!     Come  forth!" 

"A  speech!    A  speech!" 

Bidwell  was  for  poking  his  revolver  out  through  the 
25 


THEY   OF    THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

unchinked  walls  and  ordering  the  mob  to  disperse,  but 
his  wife  was  diplomatic. 

"Tis  but  an  excuse  to  get  drink,"  she  said.     "Go 
give  them  treat." 

So  Bidwell  went  forth,  and,  while  a  couple  of  stalwart 
friends  lifted  him  high,  he  shouted,  sharp  and  to  the  point, 
"It's  on  me,  Clark!" 

The  mob,  howling  with  delight,  rushed  upon  him  and 
bore  him  away,  struggling  and  sputtering,  to  Clark's 
saloon,  where  kegs  of  beer  were  broached  and  the  crowd 
took  a  first  deep  draught.  Bidwell,  in  alarm  for  Maggie, 
began  to  fight  to  get  back  to  the  cabin.  But  cries  arose 
for  the  bride. 

"The  bride— let's  see  the  bride!" 

Bidwell  expostulated.  "Oh  no!  Leave  her  alone. 
Are  you  gentlemen  ?  If  you  are,  you  won't  insist  on  see 
ing  her." 

In  the  midst  of  the  crowd  a  clear  voice  rang  out: 

"The  bride,  is  it?  Well,  here  she  is.  Get  out  o'  me 
way." 

"Clear  the  road  there  for  the  bride!"  yelled  a  hundred 
voices  as  Maggie  walked  calmly  up  an  aisle  densely 
walled  with  strange  men.  She  had  been  accustomed 
to  such  characters  all  her  life,  and  knew  them  too  well 
to  be  afraid.  Mounting  a  beer-keg,  she  turned  a  be 
nign  face  on  the  crowd.  The  light  of  the  torches  lighted 
her  hair  till  it  shone  like  spun  gold  in  a  halo  round  her 
head.  She  looked  very  handsome  in  the  warm,  sym 
pathetic  light  of  the  burning  pitch-pine. 

"Oh  yiss,  Oi'll  make  a  speech;  I'm  not  afraid  of  a 
handful  of  two-by-fours  like  you  tendcrfeet  from  the 
valley,  and  when  me  speech  is  ended  ye'll  go  home  and 
go  to  bed.  Eleven  days  ago  Sherm,  me  man,  discovered 
this  lode.  Since  then  we've  both  worked  night  and  day 

26 


THE    GRUB-STAKER 

to  git  out  the  ore — we're  dog-tired — sure  we  are — but 
we're  raisonable  folk  and  here  we  stand.  Now  gaze  y'r 
fill  and  go  home  and  1'ave  us  to  rest — like  y'r  daccnt 
mothers  would  have  ye  do." 

"Good  for  you,  Maggie!"  called  old  Angus  Craig,  who 
stood  near  her.  "Mak'  way,  lads!" 

The  men  opened  a  path  for  the  bride  and  groom  and 
raised  a  thundering  cheer  as  they  passed. 

Old  Angus  Craig  shook  his  head  again  and  said  to 
Johnson:  "Sik  a  luck  canna  last.  To  strike  a  lode  and 
win  a  braw  lass  a'  in  the  day,  ye  may  say.  Hoo-iver, 
he  waited  lang  for  baith." 


THE  COW-BOSS 

— the  reckless  cowboy  on  his  -watch- 
eycd  bronco  still  lopes  across  the 
grassy  foot-hills — or  holds  his  milling 
herd  in  the  high  parks. 


II 

THE    COW-BOSS 


THE  post-office  at  Eagle  River  was  so  small  that 
McCoy  and  his  herders  always  spoke  of  the  official 
within  as  "the  Badger,"  saying  that  he  must  surely  back 
into  his  den  for  lack  of  room  to  turn  round.  His  pre 
sentment  at  the  arched  loophole  in  his  stockade  was  for 
midable.  His  head  was  large,  his  brow  high  and  seamed, 
his  beard  long  and  tangled,  and  the  look  of  his  hazel-gray 
eyes  remote  with  cold  abstraction. 

"He's  not  a  man  to  monkey  with,"  said  McCoy  when 
the  boys  complained  that  the  old  seed  had  put  up  a  sign, 
"NO  SPITTING  IN  THIS  OFFICE."  "I'd  advise 
you  to  act  accordingly.  I  reckon  he's  boss  of  that  thing 
while  he's  in  there.  He's  a  Populist,  but  he's  regularly 
appointed  by  the  President,  and  I  don't  see  that  we're 
in  any  position  to  presume  to  spit  if  he  objects.  No, 
there  ain't  a  thing  to  do  but  get  up  a  petition  and  have 
him  removed — and  I  won't  agree  to  sign  it  when  you 
do." 

Eagle  River  was  only  a  cattle-yard  station,  a  shipping- 
point  for  the  mighty  spread  of  rolling  hills  which  make 
up  the  Bear  Valley  range  to  the  north  and  the  Grampa 
to  the  south.  Aside  from  the  post-office,  it  possessed 
two  saloons,  a  store,  a  boarding-house  or  two,  and  a  low, 


THEY   OF    THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

brown  station-house.  That  was  all,  except  during  the 
autumn,  when  there  was  nearly  always  an  outfit  of  cow 
boys  camped  about  the  corrals,  loading  cattle  or  waiting 
for  cars. 

On  the  day  when  this  story  opens,  McCoy  had  packed 
away  his  last  steer,  and,  being  about  to  take  the  train  for 
Kansas  City,  called  his  foreman  aside. 

"See  here,  Roy,  seems  to  me  the  boys  are  extra  boozed 
already.  It's  up  to  you  to  pull  right  out  for  the 
ranch." 

"That's  what  I'm  going  to  try  to  do,"  answered  Roy. 
"We'll  camp  at  the  head  of  Jack  Rabbit  to-night." 

"Good  idea.  Get  'cm  out  of  town  before  dark — 
every  mother's  son  of  'cm.  I'll  be  back  on  Saturday." 

Roy  Pierce  was  a  dependable  young  fellow,  and  honest 
ly  meant  to  carry  out  the  orders  of  his  boss;  but  there 
was  so  little  by  way  of  diversion  in  Eagle,  the  boys  had 
to  get  drunk  in  order  to  punctuate  a  paragraph  in  their 
life.  There  was  not  a  disengaged  woman  in  the  burg, 
and  bad  whisky  was  merely  a  sad  substitute  for  romance. 
Therefore  the  settlers  who  chanced  to  meet  this  bunch 
of  herders  in  the  outskirts  of  Eagle  River  that  night 
walked  wide  of  them,  for  they  gave  out  the  sounds  of 
battle. 

They  could  all  ride  like  Cossacks,  notwithstanding  their 
dizzy  heads,  and  though  they  waved  about  in  their 
saddles  like  men  of  rubber,  their  faithful  feet  clung  to 
their  stirrups  like  those  of  a  bat  to  its  perch.  In  camp 
they  scuffled,  argued,  ran  foot-races,  and  howled  derisive 
epithets  at  the  cook,  who  was  getting  supper  with 
drunken  gravity,  using  pepper  and  salt  with  lavish 
hand. 

Into  the  midst  of  this  hullabaloo  Roy,  the  cow-boss, 
rode,  white  with  rage  and  quite  sober. 

32 


THE    COW-BOSS 

"I'll  kill  that  old  son  of  a  gun  one  of  these  days," 
said  he  to  Henry  Ring. 

"Kill  who?" 

"That  postmaster.  If  he  wasn't  a  United  States 
officer,  I'd  do  it  now." 

"What's  the  matter?  Wouldn't  he  shuffle  the  mail 
fer  you?" 

"Never  lifted  a  finger.  'Nothing,'  he  barked  out  at 
me.  Didn't  even  look  up  till  I  let  loose  on  him." 

"What  did  he  do  then?" 

"Poked  an  old  Civil  War  pistol  out  of  the  window 
and  told  me  to  hike." 

"Which  you  did?" 

"Which  I  did,  after  passing  him  a  few  compliments. 
'Lay  down  your  badge,'  I  says,  'come  out  o'  your  den, 
and  I'll  pepper  you  so  full  of  holes  that  your  hide  won't 
hold  blue-joint  hay.'  And  I'll  do  it,  too,  the  old  hound!" 

"But  you  got  out,"  persisted  Ring,  maliciously. 

"I  got  out,  but  I  tell  you  right  now  he's  got  some 
thing  coming  to  him.  No  mail-sifter  of  a  little  two-for 
a-cent  town  like  Eagle  is  goin'  to  put  it  all  over  me  that 
way  and  not  repent  of  it.  I've  figured  out  a  scheme  to 
get  even  with  him,  and  you  have  got  to  help." 

This  staggered  Henry,  who  began  to  side-step  and 
limp.  "Count  me  out  on  that,"  said  he.  "The  old 
skunk  treated  me  just  about  the  same  way.  I  don't 
blame  you;  a  feller  sure  has  a  right  to  have  his  post 
master  make  a  bluff  at  shuffling  the  deck.  But,  after 
all—" 

However,  in  the  end  the  boss  won  his  most  trusted 
fellows  to  his  plan,  for  he  was  a  youth  of  power,  and  be 
sides  they  had  all  been  roiled  by  the  grizzled,  crusty  old 
official,  and  were  quite  ready  to  take  a  hand  in  his 
punishment. 

33 


THEY   OF    THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

Roy  developed  his  plot.  "We'll  pull  out  of  camp 
about  midnight,  and  ride  round  to  the  east,  sneak  in, 
and  surround  the  old  man's  shack,  shouting  and  yelling 
and  raising  Cain.  He'll  come  out  of  his  hole  to  order 
us  off,  and  I'll  rope  him  before  he  knows  where  he's  at; 
then  we'll  toy  with  him  for  a  few  minutes — long  enough 
to  learn  him  a  lesson  in  politeness — and  let  him  go." 

No  one  in  the  gang  seemed  to  see  anything  specially 
humorous  in  this  method  of  inculcating  urbanity  of 
manner,  and  at  last  five  of  them  agreed  to  stand  their 
share  of  the  riot,  although  Henry  Ring  muttered  some 
thing  about  the  man's  being  old  and  not  looking  very 
strong. 

"He's  strong  enough  to  wave  a  two-foot  gun,"  re 
torted  Roy,  and  so  silenced  all  objection. 

One  night  as  soon  as  the  camp  was  quiet  Pierce  rose 
and,  touching  his  marauders  into  activity,  saddled  and 
rode  away  as  stealthily  as  the  leader  of  a  band  of  Indian 
scouts.  He  made  straightway  over  the  divide  to  the 
east,  then  turned,  and,  crossing  the  river,  entered  the 
town  from  the  south,  in  order  to  deceive  any  chance 
observer. 

Just  below  the  station,  in  a  little  gully,  he  halted  his 
war-party  and  issued  final  orders.  "  Now  I'll  ride  ahead 
and  locate  myself  right  near  the  back  door;  then  when 
I  strike  a  light  you  fellows  come  in  and  swirl  round  the 
shack  like  a  gust  o'  hell.  The  old  devil  will  come  out 
the  back  door  to  see  what's  doin',  and  I'll  jerk  him  end 
wise  before  he  can  touch  trigger.  I  won't  hurt  him  any 
more  than  he  needs.  Now  don't  stir  till  I'm  in  posi 
tion." 

Silently,  swiftly,  his  pony  shuffled  along  the  sandy 
road  and  over  the  railway-crossing.  The  town  was 
soundless  and  unlighted,  save  for  a  dim  glow  in  the 

34 


THE    COW-BOSS 

telegraph  office,  and  the  air  was  keen  and  crisp  with 
frost.  As  he  approached  the  Badger's  shack  Pierce 
detected  a  gleam  of  light  beneath  the  curtain  of  the  side 
windows.  "If  he's  awake,  .so  much  the  better,"  he 
thought,  but  his  nerves  thrilled  as  he  softly  entered  the 
shadow. 

Suddenly  the  pony  trod  upon  something  which  made 
a  prodigious  crash.  The  door  opened,  a  tall  young  girl 
appeared  in  a  wide  flare  of  yellow  light  which  ran  out 
upon  the  grass  like  a  golden  carpet.  With  eager,  anxious 
voice  she  called  out: 

"Is  that  you,  Doctor?" 

The  raider  stiffened  in  his  saddle  with  surprise.  His 
first  impulse  was  to  set  spurs  to  his  horse  and  vanish. 
His  next  was  to  tear  off  his  disguise  and  wait,  for  the 
voice  was  sweeter  than  any  he  had  ever  heard,  and  the 
girl's  form  a  vision  of  beauty. 

Alarmed  at  his  silence,  she  again  called  out:  "Who 
are  you?  What  do  you  want?" 

"A  neighbor,  miss,"  he  answered,  dismounting  and 
stepping  into  the  light.  "Is  there  anything  I  can  do 
for  you?" 

At  this  moment  hell  seemed  to  have  let  loose  the  wild 
est  of  its  warriors.  With  shrill  whoopings,  with  flare  of 
popping  guns,  Roy's  faithful  herders  came  swirling  round 
the  cabin,  intent  to  do  their  duty,  frenzied  with  delight 
of  it. 

Horrified,  furious  at  this  breach  of  discipline,  Pierce 
ran  to  meet  them,  waving  his  hat  and  raising  the  wild 
yell,  "Whoo-ee!"  with  which  he  was  wont  to  head  off 
and  turn  a  bunch  of  steers.  "Stop  it!  Get  out!"  he 
shouted  as  he  succeeded  in  reaching  the  ears  of  one  or 
two  of  the  raiders.  "It's  all  off — there's  a  girl  here. 
Somebody  sick!  Skeedoo!" 

35 


THEY   OF    THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

The  shooting  and  the  tumult  died  away.  The  horse 
men  vanished  as  swiftly,  as  abruptly,  as  they  came, 
leaving  their  leader  in  panting,  breathless  possession  of 
.  the  field.  He  was  sober  enough  now,  and  repentant,  too. 

Slowly  he  returned  to  the  door  of  the  shack  with  vague 
intent  to  apologize.  Something  very  sudden  and  very 
terrible  must  have  fallen  upon  the  postmaster. 

After  some  hesitation  he  knocked  timidly  on  the  door. 

"Have  they  gone?"  the  girl  asked. 

"Yes;  I've  scared  'em  away.  They  didn't  mean  no 
harm,  I  reckon.  I  want  to  know  can't  I  be  of  some 
kind  of  use?" 

The  door  opened  cautiously  and  the  girl  again  ap 
peared.  She  was  very  pale  and  held  a  pistol  in  her  hand, 
but  her  voice  was  calm.  "You're  very  good,"  she  said, 
"and  I'm  much  obliged.  Who  are  you?" 

"I  am  Roy  Pierce,  foreman  for  McCoy,  a  cattleman 
north  of  here." 

"Was  it  really  a  band  of  Indians?" 

"Naw.     Only  a  bunch  of  cow-punchers  on  a  bat." 

"You  mean  cowboys?" 

"That's  what.  It's  their  little  way  of  havin'  fun.  I 
reckon  they  didn't  know  you  was  here.  I  didn't. 
Who's  sick?" 

"My  uncle." 

"You  mean  the  postmaster?" 

"Yes." 

"When  was  he  took?" 

"Last  night.  They  telegraphed  me  about  six  o'clock. 
I  didn't  get  here  till  this  morning — I  mean  yesterday 
morning." 

"What's  the  ail  of  him?" 

"A  stroke,  I'm  afraid.  He  can't  talk,  and  he's  stiff 
as  a  stake.  Oh,  I  wish  the  doctor  would  come!" 

36 


THE    COW-BOSS 

Her  anxiety  was  moving.  "I'll  try  to  find  him  for 
you." 

"I  wish  you  would." 

"You  aren't  all  alone?" 

"Yes;  Mrs.  Gilfoyle  had  to  go  home  to  her  baby. 
She  said  she'd  come  back,  but  she  hasn't." 

Roy's  heart  swept  a  wide  arc  as  he  stood  looking  into 
the  pale,  awed,  lovely  face  of  the  girl. 

"I'll  bring  help,"  he  said,  and  vanished  into  the  dark 
ness,  shivering  with  a  sense  of  guilt.  "The  poor  old 
cuss!  Probably  he  was  sick  the  very  minute  I  was 
bullyragging  him." 

The  local  doctor  had  gone  down  the  valley  on  a  serious 
case,  and  would  not  be  back  till  morning,  his  wife  said, 
thereupon  Roy  wired  to  Clay  wall,  the  county-seat,  for 
another  physician.  He  also  secured  the  aid  of  Mrs. 
James,  the  landlady  of  the  Palace  Hotel,  and  hastened 
back  to  the  relief  of  the  girl,  whom  he  found  walking  the 
floor  of  the  little  kitchen,  tremulous  with  dread. 

"I'm  afraid  he's  dying,"  she  said.  "His  teeth  are 
set  and  he's  unconscious." 

Without  knowing  what  to  say  in  way  of  comfort,  the 
herder  passed  on  into  the  little  office,  where  the  post 
master  lay  on  a  low  couch  with  face  upturned,  in  rigid, 
inflexible  pose,  his  hands  clenched,  his  mouth  foam-lined. 
Roy,  unused  to  sickness  and  death,  experienced  both  pity 
and  awe  as  he  looked  down  upon  the  prostrate  form  of 
the  man  he  had  expected  to  punish.  And  yet  these 
emotions  were  rendered  vague  and  slight  by  the  burning 
admiration  which  the  niece  had  excited  in  his  susceptible 
and  chivalrous  heart. 

She  was  tall  and  very  fair,  with  a  face  that  seemed 
plain  in  repose,  but  which  bewitched  him  when  she 
smiled.  Her  erect  and  powerful  body  was  glowing  with 

37 


THEY   OF    THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

health,  and  her  lips  and  eyes  were  deliciously  young  and 
sweet.  Her  anxious  expression  passed  away  as  Roy 
confidently  assured  her  that  these  seizures  were  seldom 
fatal.  He  didn't  know  a  thing  about  it,  but  his  tone 
was  convincing. 

"I  knew  a  man  once  who  had  these  fits  four  or  five 
times  a  year.  Didn't  seem  to  hurt  him  a  bit.  One 
funny  thing — he  never  had  'em  while  in  the  saddle. 
They  'most  always  come  on  just  after  a  heavy  meal. 
I  reckon  the  old  man  must  of  over-et." 

Mrs.  James  came  in  soon — all  too  soon  to  please  him 
— but  he  reported  to  her  his  message  to  Clay  wall.  "A 
doctor  will  be  down  on  'the  Cannonball'  about  five 
o'clock,"  he  added. 

"That's  very  kind  and  thoughtful  of  you,"  said  the 
girl.  Then  she  explained  to  Mrs.  James  that  Mr.  Pierce 
had  just  driven  off  a  horrid  band  of  cowboys  who  were 
attacking  the  town. 

The  landlady  snorted  with  contempt.  "I'm  so  used 
to  boozy  cowboys  howlin'  round,  I  don't  bat  an  eye 
when  they  shoot  up  the  street.  They're  all  a  lot  of 
cheap  skates,  anyway.  You  want  to  swat  'em  with  the 
mop  if  they  come  round;  that's  the  way  I  do." 

Roy  was  nettled  by  her  tone,  for  he  was  now  very 
anxious  to  pose  as  a  valorous  defender  of  the  innocent; 
but  agreed  with  her  that  "the  boys  were  just  having 
a  little  'whiz'  as  they  started  home;  they  didn't  mean 
no  harm." 

"Ought  I  to  sit  in  there?"  the  girl  asked  the  woman, 
with  a  glance  toward  the  inner  room. 

* '  No ;  I  -don't  think  you  can  do  any  good.  I'll  just  keep 
an  eye  on  him  and  let  you  know  if  they's  any  change." 

The  girl  apologized  for  the  looks  of  the  kitchen.  ' '  Poor 
uncle  has  been  so  feeble  lately  he  couldn't  keep  things 

38 


"YOU'RE  PRETTY  SWIFT,  AREN'T  YOU?"  SHE  SAID,  CUTTINGLY 


THE    COW-BOSS 

in  order,  and  I  haven't  had  any  chance  since  I  came. 
If  you  don't  mind,  I'll  rid  things  up  now;  it  '11  keep  my 
mind  occupied." 

"Good  idea!"  exclaimed  Roy.     "I'll  help." 

He  had  been  in  a  good  many  exciting  mix-ups  with 
steers,  bears,  cayuses,  sheriffs'  posses,  and  Indians,  but 
this  was  easily  the  most  stirring  and  amazing  hour  of 
his  life.  While  his  pony  slowly  slid  away  up  the  hill 
to  feed,  he,  with  flapping  gun  and  rattling  spurs,  swept, 
polished,  and  lifted  things  for  Lida — that  was  her  name 
— Lida  Converse. 

"My  folks  live  in  Colorado  Springs,"  she  explained  in 
answer  to  his  questions.  "My  mother  is  not  very  well, 
and  father  is  East,  so  I  had  to  come.  Uncle  Dan  was 
pretty  bad  when  I  got  here,  only  not  like  he  is  now. 
This  fit  came  on  after  the  doctor  went  away  at  nine." 

"I'm  glad  your  father  was  East,"  declared  the  raider, 
who  was  unable  to  hold  to  a  serious  view  of  the  matter, 
now  that  he  was  in  the  midst  of  a  charming  and  intimate 
conversation.  "Just  think — if  he  had  'a'  come,  I'd 
never  have  seen  you!" 

She  faced  him  in  surprise  and  disapproval  of  his  bold 
ness.  "You're  pretty  swift,  aren't  you?"  she  said, 
cuttingly. 

"A  feller's  got  to  be  in  this  country,"  he  replied, 
jauntily. 

She  was  prepared  to  be  angry  with  him,  but  his  candid, 
humorous,  admiring  gaze  disarmed  her.  "You've  been 
very  nice,"  she  said,  "and  I  feel  very  grateful;  but  I 
guess  you  better  not  say  any  more  such  things  to  me — 
to-night." 

"  You  mustn't  forget  I  chased  off  them  redskins." 

"You  said  they  were  cowboys." 

"Of  course  I  did;  I  wanted  to  calm  your  mind." 

4  39 


THEY   OF    THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

She  was  a  little  puzzled  by  his  bluffing.  "I  don't  be 
lieve  there  are  any  Indians  over  here." 

"Well,  if  they  were  cowboys,  they  were  a  fierce  lot." 

She  considered.  "  I've  told  you  I  feel  grateful.  What 
more  can  I  do?" 

"A  good  deal;  but,  as  you  say,  that  can  go  over  till 
to-morrow.  Did  I  tell  you  that  I  had  a  bunch  of  cattle 
of  my  own?" 

"I  don't  remember  of  it." 

"Well,  I  have.  I'm  not  one  of  these  crazy  cowboys 
who  blows  in  all  his  wad  on  faro  and  drink — not  on  your 
life!  I've  got  some  ready  chink  stacked  away  in  a 
Clay  wall  bank.  Want  to  see  my  bank-book?" 

She  answered,  curtly:  "Please  take  that  kettle  of 
slop  out  and  empty  it.  And  what  time  did  you  say  the 
express  was  due?" 

Roy  was  absorbed,  ecstatic.  He  virtually  forgot  all 
the  rest  of  the  world.  His  herders  could  ride  to  the 
north  pole,  his  pony  might  starve,  the  Cannonball  Ex 
press  go  over  the  cliff,  the  postmaster  die,  so  long  as  he 
was  left  in  service  to  this  princess. 

"Lord  A'mighty!  wasn't  I  in  luck?"  he  repeated  to 
himself.  "Suppose  I'd  'a*  roped  her  instead  of  the  old 
man!" 

When  he  returned  from  listening  for  the  train  he 
found  her  washing  her  hands  at  the  end  of  her  task,  and 
the  room  in  such  order  as  it  had  never  known  before. 
The  sight  of  her  standing  there,  flushed  and  very  woman 
ly,  rolling  down  her  sleeves,  was  more  than  the  young 
fellow  could  silently  observe. 

"I  hope  the  old  man  '11  be  a  long  time  getting  well," 
he  said,  abruptly. 

"That's  a  nice  thing  to  say!  What  do  you  mean  by 
such  a  cruel  wish?" 

40 


THE    COW-BOSS 

"  I  see  my  finish  when  you  go  away.  No  more  lonely 
ranch-life  for  me." 

"If  you  start  in  on  that  talk  again  I  will  not  speak 
to  you,"  she  declared,  and  she  meant  it. 

"All  right,  I'll  shut  up;  but  I  want  to  tell  you  I'm  a 
trailer  for  keeps,  and  you  can't  lose  me,  no  matter  where 
you  go.  From  this  time  on  I  forget  everything  in  the 
world  but  you." 

With  a  look  of  resolute  reproof  she  rose  and  joined 
Mrs.  James  in  the  inner  room,  leaving  Roy  cowed  and 
a  good  deal  alarmed. 

"I  reckon  I'm  a  little  too  swift,"  he  admitted;  "but, 
oh,  my  soul!  she's  a  peach!" 

When  the  train  whistled,  Lida  came  out  again.  "Will 
you  please  go  to  meet  the  doctor?"  she  asked,  with  no 
trace  of  resentment  in  her  manner. 

"Sure  thing;  I  was  just  about  starting,"  he  replied, 
instantly. 

While  he  was  gone  she  asked  Mrs.  James  if  she  knew 
the  young  man,  and  was  much  pleased  to  find  that  the 
sharp-tongucd  landlady  had  only  good  words  to  say  of 
Roy  Pierce. 

"He's  no  ordinary  cowboy,"  she  explained.  "If  he 
makes  up  to  you  you  needn't  shy." 

"Who  said  he  was  making  up  to  me?  I  never  saw 
him  before." 

"  I  want  to  know!  Well,  anybody  could  see  with  half 
an  eye  that  he  was  naturally  rustlin'  round  you.  I 
thought  you'd  known  each  other  for  years." 

This  brought  tears  of  mortification  to  the  girl's  eyes. 
"I  didn't  mean  to  be  taken  that  way.  Of  course  I 
couldn't  help  being  grateful,  after  all  he'd  done;  but 
I  think  it's  a  shame  to  be  so  misunderstood.  It's  mean 
and  low  down  of  him — and  poor  uncle  so  sick." 

4* 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

"Now  don't  make  a  hill  out  of  an  ant-heap,"  said  the 
old  woman,  vigorously.  "No  harm's  done.  You're  a 
mighty  slick  girl,  and  these  boys  don't  see  many  like 
you  out  here  in  the  sage-brush  and  pinons.  Facts  are, 
you're  kind  o'  upsettin'  to  a  feller  like  Roy.  You  make 
him  kind  o'  drunk-like.  He  don't  mean  to  be  sassy." 

"Well,  I  wish  you'd  tell  him  not  to  do  anything  more 
for  me.  I  don't  want  to  get  any  deeper  in  debt  to  him." 

The  Claywall  physician  came  into  the  little  room  as 
silently  as  a  Piute.  He  was  a  plump,  dark  little  man  of 
impassive  mien,  but  seemed  to  know  his  business.  He 
drove  the  girl  out  of  the  room,  but  drafted  Mrs.  James 
and  Roy  into  service. 

"It's  merely  a  case  of  indigestion,"  said  he;  "but  it's 
plenty  serious  enough.  You  see,  the  distended  stomach 
pressing  against  the  heart — " 

The  girl,  sitting  in  the  kitchen  and  hearing  the  swift 
and  vigorous  movement  within,  experienced  a  revulsion 
to  the  awe  and  terror  of  the  midnight.  For  the  second 
time  in  her  life  death  had  come  very  close  to  her,  but 
in  this  case  her  terror  was  shot  through  with  the  ruddy 
sympathy  of  a  handsome,  picturesque  young  cavalier. 
She  could  not  be  really  angry  with  him,  though  she  was 
genuinely  shocked  by  his  reckless  disregard  of  the  pro 
prieties  ;  for  he  came  at  such  a  dark  and  lonely  and  help 
less  hour,  and  his  prompt  and  fearless  action  in  silencing 
those  dreadful  cowboys  was  heroic.  Therefore,  when 
the  doctor  sent  Roy  out  to  say  that  her  uncle  would 
live,  a  part  of  her  relief  and  joy  shone  upon  the  young 
rancher,  who  was  correspondingly  exalted. 

"Now  you  must  let  me  hang  round  till  he  gets  well," 
he  said,  forgetful  of  all  other  duties. 

"That  reminds  me.  You'll  need  some  breakfast," 
she  said,  hurriedly;  "for  here  comes  the  sun."  And  as 

42 


THE    COW-BOSS 

she  spoke  the  light  of  the  morning  streamed  like  a  golden 
river  into  the  little  room. 

"It's  me  to  the  wood-pile,  then,"  cried  Roy,  and  his 
smile  was  of  a  piece  with  the  sunshine  on  the  wall. 


ii 

Beside  the  fallen  monarch  of  the  wood  the  lifting  sap 
lings  bud  and  intertwine.  So  over  the  stern  old  post 
master  these  young  people  re-enacted  the  most  primitive 
drama  in  the  world.  Indifferent  to  the  jeers  of  his  fel 
lows,  Roy  devoted  himself  to  the  service  of  "The  Bad 
ger's  Niece,"  and  was  still  in  town  when  McCoy  re 
turned  from  "the  East";  that  is  to  say,  from  Kansas 
City. 

Lida  had  ceased  to  protest  against  the  cowboy's  at 
tendance  and  his  love-making,  for  the  good  reason  that 
her  protests  were  unavailing.  He  declined  to  take  of 
fense,  and  he  would  not  remain  silent.  A  part  of  his 
devotion  was  due,  of  course,  to  his  sense  of  guilt,  and 
yet  this  was  only  a  small  part.  True,  he  had  sent  warn 
ings  and  dire  threats  to  silence  his  band  of  marauders; 
but  he  did  not  feel  keenly  enough  about  their  possible 
tale-bearing  to  carry  his  warnings  in  person.  "J  can't 
spare  the  time,"  he  argued,  knowing  that  Lida  would 
be  going  home  in  a  few  days  and  that  his  world  would 
then  be  blank. 

"I  lose  too  much  of  you,"  he  said  to  her  once;  "I 
can't  afford  to  have  you  out  of  my  sight  a  minute." 

She  had  grown  accustomed  to  such  speeches  as  these, 
and  seldom  replied  to  them,  except  to  order  the  speaker 
about  with  ever-increasing  tyranny.  "You're  so  anx 
ious  to  work,"  she  remarked,  "I'll  let  you  do  a-plenty. 
You'll  get  sick  o'  me  soon." 

43 


THEY    OF    THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

"Sick  of  you!  Lord  heavens!  what  '11  I  do  when  you 
leave?" 

"You'll  go  back  to  your  ranch.  A  fine  foreman  you 
must  be,  fooling  round  here  like  a  tramp.  What  docs 
your  boss  think?" 

"Don't  know  and  don't  care.  Don't  care  what  any 
body  thinks — but  you.  You're  my  only  landmark  these 
days.  You're  my  sun,  moon,  and  stars,  that's  what 
you  are.  I  set  my  watch  by  you." 

"You're  crazy!"  she  answered,  with  laughter. 

"Sure  thing!  Locoed,  we  call  it  out  here.  You've 
got  me  locoed — you're  my  pink  poison  blossom.  There 
ain't  any  feed  that  interests  me  but  you.  I'm  lonesome 
as  a  snake-bit  cow  when  I  can't  see  you." 

"Say,  do  you  know  Uncle  Dan  begins  to  notice  you. 
He  asked  me  to-day  what  you  were  hanging  round  here 
for,  and  who  you  wyere." 

"What  did  you  tell  him?" 

"I  told  him  you  were  McCoy's  hired  man  just  helping 
me  take  care  of  him." 

"That's  a  lie.  I'm  your  hired  man.  I'm  takin'  care 
of  you — willing  to  work  for  a  kiss  a  day." 

"You'll  not  get  even  that." 

"I'm  not  getting  it — yet." 

"You'll  never  get  it." 

"Don't  be  too  sure  of  that.  My  life-work  is  col 
lecting.-- my  dues.  I've  got  'cm  all  set  down.  You 
owe  me  a  dozen  for  extra  jobs,  and  a  good  hug  for 
overtime." 

She  smiled  derisively,  and  turned  the  current.  "The 
meals  you  eat  are  all  of  a  dollar  a  day." 

"They're  worth  a  bushel  of  diamonds — when  you  cook 
'em.  But  let  me  ask  you  something — is  your  old  dad  as 
fierce  as  Uncle  Dan?" 

44 


THE    COW-BOSS 

She  nodded.  "You  bet  he  is!  He's  crusty  as  old 
crust.  Don't  you  go  up  against  my  daddy  with  any 
Httle  bank-book.  It's  got  to  be  a  fat  wad,  and,  mind 
you,  no  cloves  on  your  breath,  either.  He's  crabbed  on 
the  drink  question;  that's  why  he  settled  in  Colorado 
Springs.  No  saloons  there,  you  know." 

He  considered  a  moment.  "Much  obliged.  Now 
here's  something  for  you.  You're  not  obliged  to  hand 
out  soft  words  and  a  sweet  smile  to  every  doggone  Injun 
that  happens  to  call  for  mail.  Stop  it.  Why,  you'll 
have  all  the  cow-punchers  for  fifty  miles  around  calling 
for  letters.  That  bunch  that  was  in  here  just  now  was 
from  Steamboat  Springs.  Their  mail  don't  come  here; 
it  comes  by  way  of  Wyoming.  They  were  runnin'  a 
bluff.  It  makes  me  hot  to  have  such  barefaced  swin 
dling  going  on.  I  won't  stand  for  it." 

"Well,  you  see,  I'm  not  really  deputized  to  handle  the 
mail,  so  I  must  be  careful  not  to  make  anybody  mad — 

"Anybody  but  me.     I  don't  count." 

"Oh,  you  wouldn't  complain,  I  know  that." 

"I  wouldn't,  hey?  Sure  of  that?  Well,  I'm  going 
to  start  a  petition  to  have  myself  made  postmaster— 

"Better  get  Uncle  Dan  out  first,"  she  answered,  with 
a  sly  smile.  "The  office  won't  hold  you  both." 

At  the  end  of  a  week  the  old  postmaster  was  able  to 
hobble  to  the  window  and  sort  the  mail,  but  the  doctor 
would  not  consent  to  his  cooking  his  own  meals. 

"If  you  can  stay  another  week,"  he  said  to  Lida,  "I 
think  you'd  better  do  it.  He  isn't  really  fit  to  live  alone." 

Thereupon  she  meekly  submitted,  and  continued  to 
keep  house  in  the  little  kitchen  for  herself,  her  uncle, 
and  for  Roy,  who  still  came  regularly  to  her  table,  bring 
ing  more  than  his  share  of  provisions,  however.  She 

45 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

was  a  good  deal  puzzled  by  the  change  which  had  come 
over  him  of  late.  He  was  less  gay,  less  confident  of 
manner,  and  he  often  fell  into  fits  of  abstraction. 

He  was,  in  fact,  under  conviction  of  sin,  and  felt  the 
need  of  confessing  to  Lida  his  share  in  the  zealous  assault 
of  the  cowboys  that  night.  "It's  sure  to  leak  out,"  he 
decided,  "and  I'd  better  be  the  first  to  break  the  news." 
But  each  day  found  it  harder  to  begin,  and  only  the 
announcement  of  her  intended  departure  one  morning 
brought  him  to  the  hazard.  He  was  beginning  to  feel 
less  secure  of  her,  and  less  indifferent  to  the  gibes  of  the 
town  jokers,  who  found  in  his  enslavement  much  ma 
terial  for  caustic  remark.  They  called  him  the  "tired 
cowboy"  and  the  "trusty." 

They  were  all  sitting  at  supper  in  the  kitchen  one 
night  when  the  old  postmaster  suddenly  said  to  Roy: 
"Seems  to  me  I  remember  you.  Did  I  know  you  before 
I  was  sick?"  His  memory  had  been  affected  by  his 
"stroke,"  and  he  took  up  the  threads  of  his  immediate 
past  with  uncertain  fingers. 

"I  reckon  so;  leastwise  I  used  to  get  my  mail  here," 
answered  Roy,  a  bit  startled. 

The  old  man  looked  puzzled.  "Yes;  but  it  seems  a 
little  more  special  than  that.  Someway  your  face  is 
associated  with  trouble  in  my  mind.  Did  we  have  any 
disagreement  ? ' ' 

After  the  postmaster  returned  to  his  chair  in  the  office, 
Roy  said  to  Lida, "  They're  going  to  throw  your  uncle  out 
in  a  few  weeks." 

"You  don't  mean  it!" 

"Sure  thing.  He  really  ain't  fit  to  be  here  any  more. 
Don't  you  see  how  kind  o'  dazed  he  is?  They're  going 
to  get  him  out  on  a  doctor's  certificate — loss  of  memory. 
Now,  why  don't  you  get  deputized,  and  act  in  his  place?" 


THE    COW-BOSS 

"Goodness  sakes!     I  don't  want  to  live  here." 

"Where  do  you  want  to  live — on  a  ranch?" 

"Not  on  your  life!  Colorado  Springs  is  good  enough 
for  me." 

"That's  hard  on  Roy.  What  could  I  do  to  earn  a 
living  there?  " 

"You  don't  have  to  live  there,  do  you?" 

"Home  is  where  you  are."  She  had  come  to  the 
point  where  she  received  such  remarks  in  glassy  silence. 
He  looked  at  her  in  growing  uneasiness,  and  finally  said : 
"See  here,  Lida,  I've  got  something  to  tell  you.  You 
heard  the  old  man  kind  o'  feelin'  around  in  his  old  hay 
mow  of  a  mind  about  me?  Well,  him  and  me  did  have 
a  cussin'-out  match  one  day,  and  he  drawed  a  gun  on 
me,  and  ordered  me  out  of  the  office." 

"What  for?" 

"Well,  it  was  this  way — I  think.  He  was  probably 
sick,  and  didn't  feel  a  little  bit  like  sorting  mail  when  I 
asked  for  it.  He  sure  was  aggravatin',  and  I  cussed  him 
good  and  plenty.  I  reckon  I  had  a  clove  on  my  tongue 
that  day,  and  was  irritable,  and  when  he  lit  onto  me,  I  was 
hot  as  a  hornet,  and  went  away  swearing  to  get  square." 
He  braced  himself  for  the  plunge.  "That  was  my  gang 
of  cowboys  that  came  hell-roaring  around  the  night  I 
met  you.  They  were  under  my  orders  to  scare  your 
uncle  out  of  his  hole,  and  I  was  going  to  rope  him." 

"Oh!"  she  gasped,  and  drew  away  from  him;  "that 
poor,  sick  old  man!" 

He  hastened  to  soften  the  charge.  "Of  course  I  didn't 
know  he  was  sick,  or  I  wouldn't  'ave  done  it.  He  didn't 
look  sick  the  day  before;  besides,  I  didn't  intend  to 
hurt  him — much.  I  was  only  fixin'  for  to  scare  him  up 
for  pullin'  a  gun  on  me,  that  was  all." 

"That's  the  meanest  thing  I  ever  heard  of — to  think 
47 


THEY    OF    THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

of  that  old  man,  helpless,  and  you  and  a  dozen  cowboys 
attacking  him!" 

"  I  tell  you  I  didn't  know  he  was  ailin',  and  there  was 
only  six  of  us." 

Her  tone  hurt  as  she  pointed  at  him.  "And  you  pre 
tend  to  be  so  brave." 

"No,  I  don't." 


"No,  I  didn't.  You  said  I  was  brave  and  kind,  but 
I  denied  it.  I  never  soberly  claimed  any  credit  for  driv 
ing  off  that  band  of  outlaws.  That's  one  reason  why 
I've  been  sticking  so  close  to  business  here  —  I  felt  kind 
o'  conscience-struck." 

Her  eyes  were  ablaze  now.  "Oh,  it  is!  You've  said 
a  dozen  times  it  was  on  my  account." 

"That's  right  —  about  eighty  per  cent,  on  yours  and 
twenty  per  cent,  on  my  own  account  —  I  mean  the  old 
man's." 

"The  idea!"  She  rose,  her  face  dark  with  indigna 
tion.  "Don't  you  dare  come  here  another  time.  I 
never  heard  of  anything  more  —  more  awful.  You  a 
rowdy!  I'll  never  speak  to  you  again.  Go  away!  I 
despise  you." 

Her  anger  and  chagrin  were  genuine,  that  he  felt. 
There  was  nothing  playful  or  mocking  in  her  tone  at  the 
moment.  She  saw  him  as  he  was,  a  reckless,  vengeful 
young  ruffian,  and  as  such  she  hated  him. 

He  got  upon  his  feet  slowly,  and  went  out  without 
further  word  of  defense. 


in 

The  sun  did  not  rise  for  Roy  Pierce  on  the  day  which 
followed  her  departure.     His  interest  in  Eagle  River 


THE   COW-BOSS 

died  and  his  good  resolutions  weakened.  He  went  on 
one  long,  wild,  wilful  carouse,  and  when  MeCoy  rescued 
him  and  began  to  exhort  toward  a  better  life,  he  resigned 
his  job  and  went  back  to  the  home  ranch,  where  his 
brothers,  Claude  and  Harry,  welcomed  him  with  sar 
castic  comment  as  ''the  returning  goat." 

He  tried  to  make  his  peace  with  them  by  saying, 
"I'm  done  with  whisky  forever." 

"Good  notion,"  retorted  Claude,  who  was  something 
of  a  cynic;  "just  cut  out  women  and  drink,  and  you'll 
be  happy." 

Roy  found  it  easier  to  give  up  drink  than  to  forget 
Lida.  To  put  away  thought  of  her  was  like  trying  to 
fend  the  sunlight  from  his  cabin  window  with  his  palm. 
He  was  entirely  and  hopelessly  enslaved  to  the  memory 
of  her  glowing  face  and  smiling  eyes.  What  was  there 
in  all  his  world  to  console  him  for  the  loss  of  her  ? 

Mrs.  Pierce  wonderingly  persisted  in  asking  what  had 
come  over  him,  that  he  should  be  so  sad  and  silent,  and 
Claude  finally  enlightened  her. 

"  He's  all  bent  up  over  a  girl — the  postmaster's  niece — 
of  Eagle  River,  who  had  to  quit  the  country  to  get  shut 
of  him." 

The  mother's  heart  was  full  of  sympathy,  and  her 
desire  to  comfort  her  stricken  son  led  to  shy  references 
to  his  "trouble"  which  made  him  savage.  He  went 
about  the  ranch  so  grimly,  so  spiritlessly,  that  Claude 
despairingly  remarked: 

"I  wish  the  Lord  that  girl  had  got  you.  You're  as 
cheerful  to  have  around  as  a  poisoned  hound.  Why 
don't  you  go  down  to  the  Springs  and  sit  on  her  porch? 
That's  about  all  you're  good  for  now." 

This  was  a  bull's-eye  shot,  for  Roy's  desire  by  day 
and  his  dream  by  night  was  to  trail  her  to  her  home; 

49 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

but  the  fear  of  her  scornful  greeting,  the  thought  of  a 
cutting  query  as  to  the  meaning  of  his  call,  checked  him 
at  the  very  threshold  of  departure  a  dozen  times. 

He  had  read  of  love-lorn  people  in  the  Saturday  Story 
teller,  which  found  its  way  into  the  homes  of  the  ranchers, 
but  he  had  always  sworn  or  laughed  at  their  sufferings 
as  a  part  of  the  play.  He  felt  quite  differently  about 
these  cases.  Love  was  no  longer  a  theme  for  jest,  an 
abstraction,  a  far-off  trouble;  it  had  become  a  hunger 
more  intolerable  than  any  he  had  ever  known,  a  pain 
that  made  all  others  he  had  experienced  transitory  and 
of  no  account. 

Even  Claude  admitted  the  reality  of  the  disease  by 
repeating:  "Well,  you  have  got  it  bad.  Your  symptoms 
are  about  the  worst  ever.  You're  locoed  for  fair. 
You'll  be  stepping  high  and  wide  if  you  don't  watch 
out." 

In  some  mysterious  way  the  whole  valley  now  shared 
in  a  knowledge  of  the  raid  on  the  post-office,  as  well  as 
in  an  understanding  of  Roy's  "throw-down"  by  the 
postmaster's  niece,  and  the  expression  of  this  interest 
in  his  affairs  at  last  drove  the  young  rancher  to  despera 
tion.  He  decided  to  leave  the  state.  "I'm  going  to 
Nome,"  he  said  to  his  brothers  one  day. 

"Pious  thought,"  declared  Claude.  "The  climate 
may  freeze  this  poison  out  of  you.  Why,  sure — go! 
You're  no  good  on  earth  here." 

Roy  did  not  tell  him  or  his  mother  that  he  intended 
to  go  by  way  of  the  Springs,  in  the  wish  to  catch  one 
last  glimpse  of  his  loved  one  before  setting  out  for  the 
far  northland.  To  speak  with  her  was  beyond  his  hope. 
No,  all  he  expected  was  a  chance  glimpse  of  her  in  the 
street,  the  gleam  of  her  face  in  the  garden.  "Perhaps  I 
may  pass  her  gate  at  night,  and  see  her  at  the  window." 


THE    COW-BOSS 

IV 

The  town  to  him  was  a  maze  of  bewildering  complexity 
and  magnificence,  and  he  wandered  about  for  a  day  in 
awkward  silence,  hesitating  to  inquire  the  way  to  the 
Converse  home.  He  found  it  at  last,  a  pretty  cottage 
standing  on  a  broad  terrace,  amid  trees  and  vines 
vivid  with  the  autumn  hues;  and  if  any  thought  of  ask 
ing  Lida  to  exchange  it  for  a  shack  on  a  ranch  still  lin 
gered  in  his  mind,  it  was  instantly  wiped  out  by  his  first 
glance  at  the  place. 

He  walked  by  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street,  and 
climbed  the  mesa  back  of  the  house  to  spy  upon  it  from 
the  rear,  hoping  to  detect  his  loved  one  walking  about 
under  the  pear-trees.  But  she  did  not  appear.  After 
an  hour  or  so  he  came  down  and  paced  back  and  forth 
with  eyes  on  the  gate,  unable  to  leave  the  street  till 
his  soul  was  fed  by  one  look  at  her. 

As  the  sun  sank,  and  the  dusk  began  to  come  on,  he 
grew  a  little  more  reckless  of  being  recognized,  and, 
crossing  the  way,  continued  to  sentinel  the  gate.  He 
was  passing  it  for  the  fourth  time  when  Lidft  came 
out  upon  the  porch  with  an  older  woman.  She  looked 
at  the  stranger  curiously,  but  did  not  recognize  him. 
She  wore  a  hat,  and  was  plainly  about  to  go  for  a  walk. 

Roy  knew  he  ought  to  hurry  away,  but  he  did  not. 
On  the  contrary,  he  shamelessly  met  her  with  a  sol 
emn,  husky- voiced  greeting.  "Hello,  girl!  How's  Uncle 
Dan?" 

She  started  back  in  alarm,  then  flushed  as  she  recog 
nized  him.  "How  dare  you  speak  to  me — like  that!" 

In  this  moment,  as  he  looked  into  her  face,  his  cour 
age  began  to  come  back  to  him.  "Why  didn't  you 
answer  my  letters?"  he  asked,  putting  her  on  defense. 


THEY    OF    THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

"What  business  had  you  to  write  to  me?  I  told  you 
I  would  not  answer." 

"No,  you  didn't;  you  only  said  you  wouldn't  speak 
to  me  again." 

"Well,  you  knew  what  I  meant,"  she  replied,  with 
less  asperity. 

Someway  these  slight  concessions  brought  back  his 
audacity,  his  power  of  defense.  "You  bet  I  did;  but 
what  difference  does  that  make  to  a  sick  man?  Oh,  I've 
had  a  time!  I'm  no  use  to  the  world  since  you  left. 
I  told  you  the  truth — you're  my  sun,  moon,  and  stars, 
and  I've  come  down  to  say  it  just  once  more  before  I 
pull  out  for  Alaska.  I'm  going  to  quit  the  state.  The 
whole  valley  is  on  to  my  case  of  loco,  and  I'm  due  at 
the  north  pole.  I've  come  to  say  good-by.  Here's 
where  I  take  my  congee." 

She  read  something  desperate  in  the  tone  of  his  voice. 
"What  do  you  mean?  Yrou  aren't  really  leaving?" 

"That's  what.  Here's  where  I  break  camp.  I  can't 
go  on  this  way.  I've  got  the  worst  fever  anybody  ever 
had,  I  reckon.  I  can't  eat  or  sleep  or  work,  just  on 
account  of  studying  about  you.  You've  got  me  goin' 
in  a  circle,  and  if  you  don't  say  you  forgive  me — it's 
me  to  the  bone-yard,  and  that's  no  joke,  you'll  find." 

She  tried  to  laugh,  but  something  in  his  worn  face, 
intense  eyes,  and  twitching  lips  made  her  breathing 
very  difficult.  "You  mustn't  talk  like  that.  It's  just 
as  foolish  as  can  be." 

"Well,  that  don't  help  me  a  little  bit.  You  no  busi 
ness  to  come  into  my  life  and  tear  things  up  the  way 
you  did.  I  was  all  right  till  you  came.  I  liked  myself 
and  my  neighbors  bully ;  now  nothing  interests  me — but 
just  you — and  your  opinion  of  me.  You  think  I  was  a 
cowardly  coyote  putting  up  that  job  on  your  uncle  the 

52 


'  THE    COW-BOSS 

way  I  did.  Well,  I  admit  it;  but  I've  been  aching  to 
tell  you  I've  turned  into  another  kind  of  fanner  since 
then.  You've  educated  me.  Seems  like  I  was  a  kid; 
but  I've  grown  up  into  a  man  all  of  a  sudden,  and  I'm 
startin'  on  a  new  line  of  action.  I'm  not  asking  much 
to-day,  just  a  nice,  easy  word.  It  would  be  a  heap  of 
comfort  to  have  you  shake  hands  and  say  you're  willing 
to  let  the  past  go.  Now,  that  ain't  much  to  you,  but 
it's  a  whole  lot  to  me.  Girl,  you've  got  to  be  good  to 
me  this  time." 

She  was  staring  straight  ahead  of  her  with  breath 
quickened  by  the  sincere  passion  in  his  quivering  voice. 
The  manly  repentance  which  burdened  his  soul  reached 
her  heart.  After  all,  it  was  true:  he  had  been  only  a 
reckless,  thoughtless  boy  as  he  planned  that  raid  on  her 
uncle,  and  he  had  been  so  kind  and  helpful  afterward — 
and  so  merry!  It  was  pitiful  to  see  how  changed  he 
was,  how  repentant  and  sorrowful. 

She  turned  quickly,  and  with  a  shy,  teary  smile  thrust 
her  hand  toward  him.  "All  right.  Let's  forget  it." 
Then  as  he  hungrily,  impulsively  sought  to  draw  her 
nearer,  she  laughingly  pushed  him  away.  "I  don't 
mean — so  much  as  you  think."  But  the  light  of  for 
giveness  and  something  sweeter  was  in  her  face  as  she 
added:  "Won't  you  come  in  a  minute  and  see  mother 
and  father — and  Uncle  Dan?" 

"I'm  wild  to  see  Uncle  Dan,"  he  replied  with  comical 
inflection,  as  he  followed  her  slowly  up  the  path. 


THE  REMITTANCE  MAN 


— wayward  son  from  across  the  seas — 
is  gone.  Roused  to  manhood  by  his 
country  'j  call,  he  has  joined  the  ranks 
of  those  who  fight  to  save  the  shores 
of  his  ancestral  isle. 


Ill 
THE    REMITTANCE    MAN 


TTIE  Kettle  Hole  Ranch  house  faces  a  wide,  treeless 
1  valley  and  is  backed  by  an  equally  bare  hill.  To 
the  west  the  purple  peaks  of  the  Rampart  range  are 
visible.  It  is  a  group  of  ramshackle  and  dispersed 
cabins — not  Western  enough  to  be  picturesque,  and  so 
far  from  being  Eastern  as  to  lack  cleanliness  or  even  com 
fort,  and  the  young  Englishman  who  rode  over  the  hill 
one  sunset  was  bitterly  disappointed  in  the  "whole 
plant." 

"I  shall  stay  here  but  one  night,"  said  he,  as  he  en 
tered  the  untidy  house. 

He  stayed  five  years,  and  the  cause  of  this  change  of 
mind  lay  in  the  person  of  Fan  Blondell,  the  daughter 
of  the  old  man  who  owned  the  ranch  and  to  whom  young 
Lester  had  been  sent  to  " learn  the  business"  of  cattle- 
raising. 

Fan  was  only  seventeen  at  this  time,  but  in  the  full 
flower  of  her  physical  perfection.  Lithe,  full-bosomed, 
and  ruddy,  she  radiated  a  powerful  and  subtle  charm. 
She  had  the  face  of  a  child — happy-tempered  and  pure — 
but  every  movement  of  her  body  appealed  with  danger 
ous  directness  to  the  sickly  young  Englishman  who  had 
never  known  an  hour  of  the  abounding  joy  of  life  which 

57 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

had  been  hers  from  the  cradle.     Enslaved  to  her  at  the 
first  glance,  he  resolved  to  win  her  love. 

His  desire  knew  no  law  in  affairs  of  this  kind,  but  his 
first  encounter  with  Blondell  put  a  check  to  the  dark 
plans  he  had  formed — for  the  rancher  had  the  bearing  of 
an  aged,  moth-eaten,  but  dangerous  old  bear.  His  voice 
was  a  rumble,  his  teeth  were  broken  fangs,  and  his  hands 
resembled  the  paws  of  a  gorilla.  Like  so  many  of  those 
Colorado  ranchers  of  the  early  days,  he  was  a  Missourian, 
and  his  wife,  big,  fat,  worried  and  complaining,  was  a 
Kentuckian.  Neither  of  them  had  any  fear  of  dirt,  and 
Fan  had  grown  up  not  merely  unkempt,  but  smudgy. 
Her  gown  was  greasy,  her  shoes  untied,  and  yet,  strange 
to  say,  this  carelessness  exercised  a  subduing  charm  over 
Lester,  who  was  fastidious  to  the  point  of  wasting  pre 
cious  hours  in  filling  his  boots  with  "trees"  and  folding 
his  neckties.  The  girl's  slovenly  habits  of  dress  indi 
cated,  to  his  mind,  a  similar  recklessness  as  to  her  moral 
habits,  and  it  sometimes  happens  that  men  of  his  stamp 
come  to  find  a  fascination  in  the  elemental  in  human 
life  which  the  orderly  no  longer  possess. 

Lester,  we  may  explain,  was  a  "remittance  man" — a 
youth  sent  to  America  by  his  family  on  the  pretense  of 
learning  to  raise  cattle,  but  in  reality  to  get  him  out  of 
the  way.  He  was  not  a  bad  man;  on  the  contrary,  he 
was  in  most  ways  a  gentleman  and  a  man  of  some  read 
ing — but  he  lacked  initiative,  even  in  his  villainy. 
Blondell  at  once  called  him  "a  lazy  hound" — provoked 
thereto  by  Lester's  slowness  of  toilet  of  a  morning,  and 
had  it  not  been  for  Fan — backed  by  the  fifty  dollars  a 
month  which  Lester  was  paying  for  "instruction" — he 
would  have  been  "booted  off  the  place." 

Fan  laughed  at  her  father.  "You  better  go  slow; 
George  Adalbert  is  heeled." 

58 


THE    REMITTANCE    MAN 

Blondell  snorted.  "Heeled!  He  couldn't  unlimber 
his  gun  inside  of  fifteen  minutes." 

"Well,  he  can  ride." 

The  old  man  softened  a  little.  "Yes,  he  can  ride,  and 
he  don't  complain,  once  he  gets  mounted,  but  he  carries 
'  pajammys '  in  his  saddle-bags  and  a  tooth-brush  on  his 
slicker;  hanged  if  he  don't  use  it,  too!" 

"That's  what  I  like  about  him,"  she  answered,  de 
fiantly.  "We're  all  so  blamed  careless  about  the  way 
we  live.  I  wish  he'd  jack  us  all  up  a  bit." 

Truly  Fan  was  under  conviction,  brought  to  a  realiza 
tion  of  her  slouchiness  by  Lester's  care  of  his  own  room 
as  well  as  by  his  lofty  manners.  She  no  longer  wore 
her  dress  open  at  the  throat,  and  she  kept  her  yellow 
hair  brushed,  trying  hard  to  make  each  meal  a  little  less 
like  a  pig's  swilling.  She  knew  how  things  ought  to  be 
done,  a  little,  for  at  "The  Gold  Fish  Ranch"  and  at 
Starr  Baker's  everything  was  spick  and  span  (Mrs. 
Baker  especially  was  a  careful  and  energetic  house 
keeper),  but  to  keep  to  this  higher  level  every  day  was 
too  great  an  effort  even  for  a  girl  in  love.  She  dropped 
back,  now  and  again,  weary  and  disheartened. 

It  was  her  mating-time.  She  leaned  to  Lester  from 
the  first  glance.  The  strangeness  of  his  accent,  his  ref 
erence  to  things  afar  off,  to  London  and  Paris,  appealed 
to  her  in  the  same  way  in  which  poetry  moved  her — 
dimly,  vaguely — but  his  hands,  his  eyes,  his  tender, 
low-toned  voice  won  her  heart.  She  hovered  about  him 
when  he  was  at  home,  careless  of  the  comments  of  the 
other  men,  ignoring  the  caustic  "slatting"  of  her  mother. 
She  had  determined  to  win  him,  no  matter  what  the 
father  might  say — for  to  her  all  men  were  of  the  same 
social  level  and  she  as  good  as  the  best.  Indeed,  she 
knew  no  other  world  than  the  plains  of  Colorado,  for 

59 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

she  was  born  in  the  little  dugout  which  still  remained  a 
part  of  the  kitchen.  The  conventions  of  cities  did  not 
count  with  her. 

She  was  already  aware  of  her  power,  too,  and  walked 
among  the  rough  men  of  her  acquaintance  with  the 
step  of  an  Amazonian  queen,  unafraid,  unabashed. 
She  was  not  in  awe  of  Lester;  on  the  contrary,  her  love 
for  him  was  curiously  mingled  with  a  certain  sisterly, 
almost  maternal  pity;  he  was  so  easily  "flustered." 
He  was,  in  a  certain  sense,  on  her  hands  like  an 
invalid. 

She  soon  learned  that  he  was  wax  beneath  her  palm — 
that  the  touch  of  a  finger  on  his  arm  made  him  uneasy 
of  eye  and  trembling  of  limb.  It  amused  her  to  experi 
ment  with  him — to  command  him,  to  demand  speech 
of  him  when  he  was  most  angry  and  disgusted  with  the 
life  he  was  living.  That  he  despised  her  father  and 
mother  she  did  not  know,  but  that  he  was  sick  of  the 
cowboys  and  their  " clack"  she  did  know,  and  she 
understood  quite  as  well  as  if  he  had  already  told  her 
that  she  alone  kept  him  from  returning  at  once  to 
Denver  to  try  some  other  manner  of  earning  a  living. 
This  realization  gave  her  pride  and  joy. 

She  had  but  one  jealousy — he  admired  and  trusted 
Mrs.  Baker  and  occasionally  rode  over  there  to  talk 
with  her,  and  Fan  could  not  understand  that  he  sought 
intellectual  refuge  from  the  mental  squalor  of  the  Blon- 
dells,  but  she  perceived  a  difference  in  his  glance  on  his 
return.  Mrs.  Baker,  being  a  keen-sighted,  practical 
little  woman,  soon  fell  upon  the  plainest  kind  of  speech 
with  the  young  Englishman. 

"This  is  no  place  for  you,"  she  defiantly  said. 
"The  rest  of  us  are  all  more  or  less  born  to  the  plains 
and  farm-life,  but  you're  not;  you're  just  'sagging/ 

60 


THE    REMITTANCE    MAN 

that's  all.  You're  getting  deeper  into  the  slough  all 
the  time." 

"Quite  right,"  he  answered,  "but  I  don't  know  what 
else  I  can  do.  I  have  no  trade — I  know  nothing  of  any 
art  or  profession,  and  my  brother  is  quite  content  to 
pay  my  way  so  long  as  he  thinks  I'm  on  a  ranch,  and  in 
the  way  of  learning  the  business." 

She,  with  her  clear  eyes  searching  his  soul,  replied: 
"The  longer  you  stay  the  more  difficult  it  will  be  to  break 
away.  Don't  you  see  that?  You're  in  danger  of  being 
fastened  here  forever." 

He  knew  what  she  meant,  and  Ws  thin  face  flushed. 
"I  know  it  and  I  am  going  to  ask  Starr  to  give  me  a 
place  here  with  you,  and  I'm  about  to  write  my  brother 
stating  full  reasons  for  the  change.  He  might  advance 
me  enough  to  buy  into  Starr's  herd." 

She  considered  this.  "I'll  take  the  matter  up  with 
Starr,"  she  replied,  after  a  pause.  "Meanwhile,  you 
can  come  over  and  stay  as  a  visitor  as  long  as  you  please 
— but  don't  bring  Fan,"  she  added,  sharply.  "I  can't 
stand  slatterns,  and  you  must  cut  loose  from  her  once 
for  all." 

Again  he  flushed.  "I  understand — but  it  isn't  easy. 
Fan  has  been  mighty  good  to  me;  life  would  have 
been  intolerable  over  there  but  for  her." 

"I  should  think  life  would  have  been  intolerable  with 
her,"  Mrs.  Baker  answered,  with  darkening  brow,  and 
then  they  talked  of  other  things  till  he  rose  to  ride 
away. 

He  headed  his  horse  homeward,  fully  resolved  to  give 
notice  of  removal,  but  he  did  not.  On  the  contrary, 
he  lost  himself  to  Fan.  The  girl,  glowing  with  love  and 
anger  and  at  the  very  climax  of  her  animal  beauty,  de 
veloped  that  night  a  subtlety  of  approach,  a  method  of 


THEY    OF    THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

attack,  which  baffled  and  in  the  end  overpowered  him. 
She  was  adroit  enough  to  make  no  mention  of  her  rivals ; 
she  merely  set  herself  to  cause  his  committal,  to  bend 
him  to  her  side.  As  the  romping  girl  she  played  round 
him,  indifferent  to  the  warning  glances  of  her  mother, 
her  eyes  shining,  her  cheeks  glowing,  till  the  man  he 
was,  the  life  he  had  lived,  the  wishes  of  his  brother,  were 
fused  and  lost  in  the  blind  passion  of  the  present.  "This 
glorious,  glowing  creature  can  be  mine.  What  does  all 
the  rest  matter?"  was  his  final  word  of  renunciation. 

In  this  mood  he  took  her  to  his  arms,  in  this  madness 
he  told  her  of  his  love  (committing  himself  into  her 
hands,  declining  into  her  life),  and  in  the  end  requested 
of  her  parents  the  honor  of  their  daughter's  hand. 

Mrs.  Blondell  wept  a  tear  or  two  and  weakly  gave  her 
consent,  but  the  old  ranchman  thundered  and  lightened. 
"What  can  you  do  for  my  girl?"  he  demanded.  "As  I 
understand  it,  you  haven't  a  cent — the  very  clothes 
you've  got  on  your  back  are  paid  for  by  somebody  else! 
What  right  have  you  to  come  to  me  with  such  a  pro 
posal?" 

To  all  this  Lester,  surprised  and  disconcerted,  could 
but  meekly  answer  that  he  hoped  soon  to  buy  a  ranch 
of  his  own— that  his  brother  had  promised  to  "set  him 
up"  as  soon  as  he  had  mastered  the  business. 

Blondell  opened  his  jaws  to  roar  again  when  Fan  in 
terposed  and,  taking  a  clutch  in  his  shaggy  beard,  said, 
calmly:  "Now,  dad,  you  hush!  George  Adelbert  and 
I  have  made  it  all  up  and  you  better  fall  in  grace 
fully.  It  won't  do  you  any  good  to  paw  the  dirt  and 
beller." 

Lester  grew  sick  for  a  moment  as  he  realized  the  tem 
per  of  the  family  into  which  he  was  about  to  marry,  but 
when  Fan,  turning  with  a  gay  laugh,  put  her  round, 

63 


THE    REMITTANCE   MAN 

smooth  arm  about  his  neck,  the  rosy  cloud  closed  over 
his  head  again. 

II 

Blondell  was  silenced,  but  not  convinced.  A  penni 
less  son-in-law  was  not  to  his  liking.  Fan  was  his  only 
child,  and  the  big  ranch  over  which  he  presided  was  worth 
sixty  thousand  dollars.  What  right  had  this  lazy  Eng 
lishman  to  come  in  and  marry  its  heiress?  The  more 
he  thought  about  it  the  angrier  he  grew,  and  when  he 
came  in  the  following  night  he  broke  forth. 

"See  here,  mister,  I  reckon  you  better  get  ready  and 
pull  out.  I'm  not  going  to  have  you  for  a  son-in-law, 
not  this  season.  The  man  that  marries  my  Fan  has  got 
to  have  sabe  enough  to  round  up  a  flock  of  goats — and 
wit  enough  to  get  up  in  the  morning.  So  you  better 
vamoose  to-morrow." 

Lester  received  his  sentence  in  silence.  At  the  mo 
ment  he  was  glad  of  it.  He  turned  on  his  heel  and 
went  to  packing  with  more  haste,  with  greater  skill,  than 
he  had  ever  displayed  in  any  enterprise  hitherto.  His 
hurry  arose  from  a  species  of  desperation.  "If  I  can 
only  get  out  of  the  house!"  was  his  inward  cry. 

"Why  pack  up?"  he  suddenly  asked  himself.  "What 
do  they  matter — these  boots  and  shirts  and  books?" 
He  caught  a  few  pictures  from  the  wall  and  stuffed  them 
into  his  pockets,  and  was  about  to  plunge  out  into  the 
dusk  when  Fan  entered  the  room  and  stood  looking  at 
him  with  ominous  intentness. 

She  was  no  longer  the  laughing,  romping  girl,  but  the 
woman  with  alert  eye  and  tightly  closed  lips.  "What 
are  you  doing,  Dell?" 

"Your  father  has  ordered  me  to  leave  the  ranch,"  he 
answered,  "and  so  I'm  going." 

63 


THEY    OF    THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

"No,  you're  not!  I  don't  care  what  he  has  ordered! 
You're  not  going  " — she  came  up  and  put  her  arms  about 
his  neck — "not  without  me."  And,  feeling  her  claim  to 
pity,  he  took  her  in  his  arms  and  tenderly  pressed  her 
cheek  upon  his  bosom.  Then  she  began  to  weep.  "I 
can't  live  without  you,  Dell,"  she  moaned. 

He  drew  her  closer,  a  wave  of  tenderness  rising 
in  his  heart.  "I'll  be  lonely  without  you,  Fan — but 
your  father  is  right.  I  am  too  poor  —  we  have  no 
home — " 

"What  does  that  matter?"  she  asked.  "I  wouldn't 
marry  you  for  any  amount  of  money!  And  I  know  you 
don't  care  for  this  old  ranch!  Til  be  glad  to  get  shut 
of  it.  I'll  go  with  you,  and  we'll  make  a  home  some 
where  else."  Then  her  mood  changed.  Her  face  and 
voice  hardened.  She  pushed  herself  away  from  him. 
"No,  I  won't!  I'll  stay  here,  and  so  shall  you!  Dad 
can't  boss  me,  and  I  won't  let  him  run  you  out.  Come 
and  face  him  up  with  me." 

So,  leading  him,  she  returned  to  the  kitchen,  where 
Blondell,  alone  with  his  wife,  was  eating  supper,  his 
elbows  on  the  table,  his  hair  unkempt,  his  face  glowering, 
a  glooming  contrast  to  his  radiant  and  splendid  daughter, 
who  faced  him  fearlessly.  "  Dad,  what  do  you  mean  by 
talking  this  way  to  George  Adelbert?  He's  going  to 
stay  and  I'm  going  to  stay,  and  you're  going  to  be 
decent  about  it,  for  I'm  going  to  marry  him." 

"No,  you're  not!"  he  blurted  out. 

"Well,  I  am!"  She  drew  nearer  and  with  her  hands 
on  the  table  looked  down  into  his  wind-worn  face  and 
dim  eyes.  "I  say  you've  got  to  be  decent.  Do  you 
understand?"  Her  body  was  as  lithe,  as  beautiful,  as 
that  of  a  tigress  as  she  leaned  thus,  and  an  unalterable 
resolution  blazed  in  her  eyes  as  she  went  on,  a  deeper 


THE    REMITTANCE   MAN 

significance  coming  into  her  voice:  "Furthermore,  I'm 
as  good  as  married  to  him  right  now,  and  I  don't  care 
who  knows  it." 

The  old  man's  head  lifted  with  a  jerk,  and  he  looked 
at  her  with  mingled  fear  and  fury.  "What  do  you 
mean?" 

"Anything  you  want  to  have  it  mean,"  she  replied. 
"You  drive  him  out  and  you  drive  me  out — that's  what 
I  mean." 

Blondell  saw  in  her  face  the  look  of  the  woman  who 
is  willing  to  assume  any  guilt,  any  shame  for  her  lover, 
and,  dropping  his  eyes  before  her  gaze,  growled  a  curse 
and  left  the  room. 

Fan  turned  to  her  lover  with  a  ringing,  boyish  laugh, 
"  It's  all  right,  Dell;  he's  surrendered!" 

in 

Lester  passed  the  month  before  his  marriage  in  alter 
nating  uplifts  and  depressions,  and  the  worst  of  it  lay 
in  the  fact  that  his  moments  of  exaltation  were  sensual— 
of  the  flesh,  and  born  of  the  girl's  presence — while  his 
depression  came  from  his  sane  contemplation  of  the  fate 
to  which  he  was  hastening.  He  went  one  day  to  talk 
it  all  over  with  Mrs.  Baker,  who  now  held  a  dark  opinion 
of  Fan  Blondell.  She  frankly  advised  him  to  break  the 
engagement  and  to  go  back  to  England. 

"I  can't  do  that,  my  dear  Mrs.  Baker.  I  am  too  far 
committed  to  Fan  to  do  that.  Besides,  I  know  she  would 
make  a  terrible  scene.  She  would  follow  me.  And  be 
sides,  I  am  fond  of  her,  you  know.  She's  very  beautiful, 
now — and  she  does  love  me,  poor  beggar!  I  wonder  at 
it,  but  she  does."  Then  he  brightened  up.  "You 
know  she  has  the  carriage  of  a  duchess.  Really,  if  she 

65 


THEY   OF    THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

were  trained  a  little  she  would  be  quite  presentable  any 
where." 

Mrs.  Baker  shook  her  head.  "She's  at  her  best  this 
minute.  Look  at  the  mother;  that's  what  she'll  be  like 
in  a  few  years." 

"Oh  no  —  not  really!  She's  an  improvement  —  a 
vast  improvement  —  on  the  old  people,  don't  you 
think?" 

"You  can't  make  a  purse  out  of  a  sow's  ear.  Fan  will 
sag  right  down  after  marriage.  Mark  my  words.  She's 
a  slattern  in  her  blood,  and  before  the  honeymoon  is  over 
she'll  be  slouching  around  in  old  slippers  and  her  night 
gown.  That  is  plain  talk,  Mr.  Lester,  but  I  can't  let 
you  go  into  this  trap  with  your  eyes  shut." 

Lester  went  away  with  renewed  determination  to 
pack  his  belongings  and  bolt,  but  the  manly  streak  in 
his  blood  made  it  impossible  for  him  to  go  without  some 
sort  of  explanation  to  her. 

The  other  hands,  who  called  him  "George  Adelbert" 
in  mockery,  were  more  and  more  contemptuous  of  him, 
and  one  or  two  were  sullen,  for  they  loved  Fan  and  re 
sented  this  "lily-fingered  gent,"  who  was  to  their  minds 
"after  the  old  man's  acres."  Young  Compton,  the  son 
of  a  neighboring  rancher,  was  most  insulting,  for  he  had 
himself  once  carried  on  a  frank  courtship  with  Fan,  and 
enjoyed  a  brief,  half-expressed  engagement.  He  was  a 
fine  young  fellow,  not  naturally  vindictive,  and  he  would 
not  have  uttered  a  word  of  protest  had  his  successful 
rival  been  a  man  of  "the  States,"  but  to  give  way  to  an 
English  adventurer  whose  way  was  paid  by  his  brother 
was  a  different  case  altogether. 

Of  George  Adelbert's  real  feeling  the  boys,  of  course, 
knew  nothing.  Had  they  known  of  his  hidden  contempt 
for  them  they  would  probably  have  taken  him  out  of 

66 


THE    REMITTANCE>MAN 

the  country  at  the  end  of  a  rope,  but  of  his  position  with 
Fan  they  were  in  no  doubt,  for  she  was  very  frank  with 
them.  If  they  accused  her  of  being  ' '  sweet  on  the  bloody 
Englishman"  she  laughed.  If  they  threatened  his  life 
in  a  jocular  way  she  laughed  again,  but  in  a  different 
way,  and  said:  "Don't  make  a  mistake;  George  Adel- 
bert  is  a  fighter  from  way  back  East."  And  once, 
in  a  burst  of  rage,  she  said:  "I  won't  have  you 
saying  such  things,  Lincoln  Compton.  I  won't  have 
it,  I  tell  you!"  No  one  could  accuse  her  of  disloyalty 
or  cowardice. 

In  his  letters  home  Lester  had  put  his  fiancee's  best 
foot  forward.  "She's  quite  too  good  for  me,"  he  wrote 
to  his  brother.  "She's  young  and  beautiful  and  sole 
heiress  of  an  estate  twice  as  big  as  our  whole  family  can 
muster.  She's  uncultivated,  the  diamond  in  the  rough, 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  you  understand,  but  she'll 
polish  easily."  He  put  all  this  down  in  the  sardonic 
wish  to  procure  some  sort  of  settlement  from  his 
brother.  He  got  it  by  return  mail. 

Edward  was  suavely  congratulatory,  and  in  closing 
said:  "  I'm  deucedly  glad  you're  off  my  hands  just  now, 
my  boy,  for  I'm  confoundedly  hard  up.  You're  doing 
the  sensible  thing — only  don't  try  to  bring  your  family 
home — not  at  present." 

Lester  was  thrown  into  despairing  fury  by  this  letter, 
which  not  only  cut  him  off  from  his  remittances,  but 
politely  shut  the  paternal  door  in  his  own  face  as  well 
as  in  the  face  of  his  bride.  For  the  moment  he  had  some 
really  heroic  idea  of  setting  to  work  to  show  them  what 
he  could  do.  "The  beggar!  He  squats  down  on  the 
inheritance,  shoves  me  out,  and  then  takes  on  a  lot  of 
'side'  as  to  his  superiority  over  me!  He  always  was  a 
self -sufficient  ass.  I'd  like  to  punch  his  jaw!" 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

Then  his  rage  faded  out  and  a  kind  of  sullen  resigna 
tion  came  to  him.  What  was  the  use?  Why  not  sub 
mit  to  fate?  "Everything  has  been  against  me  from 
the  start,"  he  bitterly  complained,  and  in  this  spirit  he 
approached  his  wedding-day. 

The  old  man,  acknowledging  him  as  a  son-in-law  pros 
pective,  addressed  him  now  with  gruff  kindness,  and  had 
Lester  shown  the  slightest  gain  in  managerial  ability  he 
would  have  been  content — glad  to  share  a  little  of  his 
responsibility  with  a  younger  man.  In  his  uncouth, 
hairy,  grimy  fashion  Blondell  was  growing  old,  and  feel 
ing  it.  As  he  said  to  his  wife:  "It's  a  pity  that  our  only 
child  couldn't  have  brought  a  real  man,  like  Compton, 
into  the  family.  There  ain't  a  hand  on  the  place  that 
wouldn't  'a'  been  more  welcome  to  me.  What  do  you 
suppose  would  become  of  this  place  if  it  was  put  into 
this  dandy's  hands?" 

"I  don't  know,  pa.  Fan,  for  all  her  slack  ways,  is  a 
purty  fair  manager.  She  wouldn't  waste  it.  She  might 
let  it  run  down,  but  she'd  hang  on  to  it." 

"But  she's  a  fool  about  that  jackass." 

"She  is  now,"  answered  the  mother,  with  cynical  em 
phasis,  which  she  softened  by  adding,  "Dell  ain't  the 
kind  that  would  try  to  work  her." 

He  sighed  with  troubled  gaze  and  grumbled  an  oath. 
"I  don't  kno^w  what  to  think  of  him!  He  gits  me." 
And  in  that^'rather  mournful  spirit  he  went  about  his 
work,  leaving  the  whole  matter  of  the  marriage  festival 
in  the  hands  of  the  women.  In  a  dim  way  he  still  felt 
that  haste  was  necessary,  although  Fan's  face  was  as 
joyous,  as  careless,  and  as  innocent  as  a  child's.  As  she 
galloped  about  the  country  with  her  George  Adelbert 
she  sowed  her  "bids"  broadcast,  as  if  wishing  all  the 
world  to  share  her  happiness.  There  was  nothing  ex- 

68 


THE    REMITTANCE    MAN 

elusive,  or  shrinking,  or  parsimonious  in  Frances  Blon- 
dell. 

IV 

The  marriage  feast  was  indeed  an  epoch-making  event 
in  the  county.  It  resembled  a  barbecue  and  was  quite 
as  inclusive.  Distinctions  of  the  social  sort  were  few  in 
Arapahoe  County.  Cattle-rustlers  and  sheepmen  were 
debarred,  of  course,  but  aside  from  these  unfortunates 
practically  the  whole  population  of  men,  women,  chil 
dren,  and  babies  assembled  in  the  Kettle  Hole  Ranch 
grove.  The  marriage  was  to  be  "alfresco,"  as  the  Li- 
mone  Limerick  repeated  several  times. 

Blondell  found  it  a  hard  day,  for  what  with  looking 
after  the  roasting  ox  and  the  ice  and  the  beer,  he  was  al 
most  too  busy  to  say  hello  to  his  guests.  Fan  had  con 
trived  to  get  a  clean  shirt  on  him  by  the  trick  of  whisking 
away  his  old  one  and  substituting  a  white  one  in  its 
place.  He  put  this  on  without  realizing  how  splendid 
it  was,  but  rebelled  flatly  at  the  collar,  and  by  the  time 
the  ox  was  well  basted  his  shirt  was  subdued  to  a  condi 
tion  which  left  him  almost  at  ease  with  himself. 

Fan  received  the  people  at  the  door  of  the  shack — her 
mother  being  too  busy  in  the  preparation  for  dinner  to 
do  more  than  say  " Howdy?"  to  those  who  deliberately 
sought  her  out ;  but  Fan  was  not  embarrassed  or  wearied. 
It  was  her  great  day — she  was  only  a  little  disturbed 
when  George  Adelbert  fled  to  his  room  for  a  little  relief 
from  the  strain  of  his  position,  for  he  lacked  both  her 
serenity  of  spirit  and  her  physical  health. 

Once  Lester  would  have  enjoyed  the  action  and  com 
ment  of  these  people  as  characters  in  a  play,  but  now  the 
knowledge  that  he  was  about  to  sink  to  their  level  and 
be  nailed  there  filled  him  with  a  fear  and  disgust  which 

69 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

not  even  the  radiant  face  and  alluring  body  of  his  bride 
could  conceal  or  drive  out.  These  lumbering  ranchers, 
these  tobacco-chewing,  drawling  lumpkins,  were  they  to 
be  his  companions  for  the  rest  of  his  life?  These  women 
with  their  toothless,  shapeless  mouths,  these  worn  and 
weary  mothers  in  home-made  calico  and  cheap  millinery, 
were  they  to  be  the  visitors  at  his  fireside?  What  kind 
of  woman  would  they  make  of  Fan? 

By  one  o'clock  the  corrals  were  full  of  ponies  and  the 
sheds  and  yards  crowded  with  carriages  all  faded  by  the 
pitiless  sun  and  sucked  dry  by  the  never-resting  wind  of 
the  plain. 

Meanwhile  the  young  women  had  set  long  tables 
in  the  back  yard  and  covered  them  with  food — con 
tributed  chicken,  home-made  biscuit,  cake,  and  pie, 
while  the  young  fellows  had  been  noisily  working 
at  constructing  a  "bowery"  for  the  dance  which  was 
to  follow  the  ceremony  at  three.  And  at  last  Fan 
raised  a  bugle-call  for  "dinner!"  and  they  all  came 
with  a  rush. 

The  feast  did  not  last  long,  for  every  one  was  hungry 
and  ate  without  permitting  delay  or  distraction.  Near 
ly  all  remarked  on  having  had  a  very  early  breakfast, 
and  they  certainly  showed  capacity  for  not  merely  beef 
and  beer,  but  pie  and  ice-cream,  and  when  they  shoved 
back,  and  lighted  the  cigars  which  Lester  had  provided 
with  prodigal  hand,  they  all  agreed  that  the  barbecue 
was  "up  to  the  bills." 

The  ceremony  at  three  was  short,  almost  hurried,  so 
great  was  the  bustle  about  the  house  and  yard.  Fan 
wore  no  veil  and  George  Adelbert  made  no  change  from 
the  neat  sack-suit  which  he  had  put  on  at  rising.  At 
the  close  of  the  clergyman's  blessing  he  was  called  upon 
for  a  second  time  to  pump  the  hard  hands  and  stringy 

70 


THE    REMITTANCE   MAN 

arms  of  his  neighbors  as  they  filed  by  to  bid  them  both 
a  hearty  God-speed. 

After  this  painful  procession  was  ended  Fan  dragged 
him  away  to  the  bower  where  the  young  folks  were  al 
ready  dancing  with  prodigious  clatter.  ' '  How  young  she 
is!"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  saw  her  mix  with  the  crowd  of 
tireless,  stamping,  prancing  cowboys. 

As  the  dance  went  on  he  grew  furious  with  her  lack 
of  reserve,  her  indelicacy.  Her  good-natured  laughter 
with  the  men  who  crowded  about  her  familiarly  was  a 
kind  of  disloyalty.  She  seemed  at  times  to  be  exchang 
ing  doubtful  jests  with  them;  and  at  last,  to  protect  her 
from  the  results  of  her  own  fatuity,  he  danced  with  her 
himself — danced  almost  incessantly,  notwithstanding  the 
heat  and  the  noise. 

At  sunset  they  all  returned  to  the  tables  and  ate  up 
what  remained  of  the  ox  and  the  pies. 

Lester  was  well  enough  acquainted  with  these  rough 
youths  to  know  that  some  deviltry  was  preparing,  and, 
already  furious  with  his  bride  and  distrustful  of  the 
future,  his  self-command  at  last  gave  way.  Drawing 
Fan  away  from  the  crowd  he  said,  tenderly: 

"I've  had  enough  of  this!  I'm  having  Aglar  harness 
the  buckskins  into  the  red  cart,  and  I  want  you  to  go  to 
the  house  and  pack  a  few  things — we're  going  to  Limone 
and  catch  the  early  train  for  Denver." 

"We  can't  do  that,  Dell;  we  got  to  stay  here  and  feed 
this  gang  once  more." 

"Oh,  hang  the  gang!  I'm  sick  of  them.  Get  ready, 
I  tell  you!  Who  cares  what  these  beggars  think?" 

She  laughed.  "You're  jealous  of  them."  Then,  ris 
ing  to  his  passion,  she  answered,  "All  right;  I'll  sneak 
some  clothes  into  a  bag  and  we'll  slide  out  and  leave  the 
gang." 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

A  half -hour  later  they  stole  away  toward  the  back  of 
the  garden  and  out  upon  the  prairie,  where  a  Mexican 
was  holding  a  spirited  team.  Fan  was  giggling  so  hard 
that  she  was  barely  able  to  lift  the  valise  which  she  car 
ried  in  her  hand. 

"Don't  you  tell,"  she  said  to  the  Mexican.  "If  they 
ask,  say  we  went  to  Holcombe." 

"All  right.  I  sabe"  the  Mexican  replied.  Even  as 
he  spoke  the  music  in  the  bower  ceased  and  voices  were 
heard  in  question. 

Fan  sobered.     "They've  missed  us  already." 

Lester  took  the  reins.  "Send  'em  south,  Aglar,"  and 
at  his  chirp  the  team  sprang  forward  out  upon  the  road 
into  the  coolness  and  silence  of  the  midnight  plain. 

Fan,  clutching  Lester's  arm,  shook  with  laughter. 
"It's  like  eloping— ain't  it?" 

The  tone  of  her  voice  irritated  him.  "Good  Heaven! 
how  vulgar  she  is !  And  she  is  my  wife, ' '  was  his  thought ; 
and  he  took  no  pleasure  in  her  nearness. 

Wild  whoops  reached  them  from  the  ranch-house  now 
hid  in  the  valley  behind  them,  and  a  few  moments  later 
the  yells  broke  out  again  perceptibly  nearer. 

"They're  after  us!"  cried  Fan,  vastly  excited  and 
pleased.  "It's  a  race  now,"  and,  catching  the  whip 
from  his  hand,  she  lashed  the  horses  into  a  gallop. 

He  said:  "I'll  turn  into  the  Sun-Fish  Trail;  we'll 
throw  'em  off  the  track." 

"No  use, ' '  she  laughed.  ' '  No  use,  Dell ;  they  can  read 
a  trail  like  Injuns;  besides,  they're  overtaking  us.  We 
might  as  well  turn  and  go  back." 

His  only  answer  was  a  shout  to  the  horses.  He  was 
burning  with  fury  now.  All  his  hidden  contempt,  his 
concealed  hatred  of  the  vulgarians  behind  him,  filled 
his  heart.  It  was  like  them,  the  savages,  to  give  chase. 

72 


THE    REMITTANCE   MAN 

With  shrill  whoops  in  imitation  of  Comanches  the 
cowboys  came  on,  riding  their  swift  and  tireless  ponies; 
like  skimming  hawks  they  swept  down  the  swells,  and 
the  bride,  clinging  to  her  husband's  arm,  called  each  of 
them  by  his  name. 

1 '  Link  Compton  is  in  the  lead.  Pull  up !"  She  reached 
a  firm  hand  and  laid  it  on  the  lines.  ''Pull  up,  Dell;  it's 
no  use." 

He  tried  to  shake  off  her  grasp,  but  could  not.  Her 
voice  changed  to  command.  " Don't  be  a  fool!"  she 
called,  sharply,  and,  laying  both  hands  upon  the  reins,  she 
brought  the  horses  into  a  trot  in  spite  of  his  fvirious  objec 
tion,  just  as  the  first  of  the  pursuing  cowboys  rode  along 
side  and,  seizing  one  of  the  horses  by  the  bit,  cried  out: 

' '  Come  back.     We  need  you !" 

Even  as  he  spoke  a  whistling  rope  settled  round  the 
fleeing  couple  and  the  team  came  to  a  stand,  surrounded 
by  a  hooting  mob  of  mounted  men.  The  noose,  tight- 
drawn,  was  like  a  steel  embrace,  and  Compton  called: 

" Thought  you'd  give  us  the  slip,  did  ye?  Well,  I 
don't  think!" 

"Leave  us  alone,  you  ruffians,"  shouted  Lester,  "or 
it  '11  be  the  worse  for  you!" 

They  all  laughed  at  this,  and  Compton  drew  the  rope 
tighter,  pinning  Lester's  arms  to  his  side. 

"Boys — "  began  Fan  in  appeal,  but  she  got  no  further. 

Lester,  wrenching  his  right  arm  loose,  began  to  shoot. 
What  happened  after  that  no  one  ever  clearly  knew,  but 
the  team  sprang  wildly  forward,  and  Compton's  pony 
reared  and  fell  backward,  and  the  bride  and  groom  were 
thrown  violently  to  the  ground. 

When  Fan  opened  her  eyes  she  saw  the  big  stars  above 
her  and  felt  a  sinewy  arm  beneath  her  head.  Compton 

73 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

was  fanning  her  with  his  hat  and  calling  upon  her  to 
speak,  his  voice  agonized  with  fear  and  remorse. 

Slowly  it  all  came  back  to  her,  and,  struggling  to  a 
sitting  position,  she  called  piteously:  "Dell,  where  are 
you?  Dell!"  Her  voice  rose  in  fear,  a  tone  no  man 
had  ever  heard  in  it  before.  She  staggered  to  her 
feet  and  dazedly  looked  about  her.  A  group  of  awed, 
silenced,  dismounted  men  stood  not  far  away,  and 
on  the  ground,  lying  in  a  crumpled,  distorted  heap, 
was  her  husband.  With  a  shriek  of  agony  she  fell  on 
her  knees  beside  him,  calling  upon  him  to  open  his 
eyes,  to  speak  to  her. 

Then  at  last,  as  the  conviction  of  his  death  came  to 
her,  she  lifted  her  head  and  with  a  voice  of  level,  hoarse- 
throated  hate,  she  imprecated  her  murderers.  "I'll  kill 
you,  every  one  of  you!  I'll  kill  you  for  this — you  cow 
ardly  wolves — I'll  kill — " 


They  lifted  them  both  up  for  dead,  and  Compton, 
taking  Fan  in  his  strong  arms,  held  her  like  a  child  as 
they  drove  slowly  back  to  the  ranch.  All  believed  Lester 
dead;  but  Compton,  who  held  his  ear  to  Fan's  lips,  in 
sisted  that  she  was  breathing,  and  indeed  she  recovered 
from  her  swoon  before  they  reached  the  house. 

Blondell,  more  powerfully  moved  than  ever  before  in 
his  life,  after  a  swift  curse  upon  the  culprits  took  his 
girl  to  his  bosom  and  carried  her  to  her  bed. 

As  her  brain  cleared,  Fan  rose  and,  staggering  across 
the  room,  took  her  husband's  head  in  her  arms.  "Bring 
some  water.  Dell  is  hurt.  Don't  you  see  he  is  hurt? 
Be  quick!" 

"Has  somebody  gone  for  the  doctor?"  asked  the 
74 


THE    REMITTANCE  MAN 

mother,  to  whom  this  was  the  raving  of  dementia. 
"Somebody  go." 

No  one  had,  for  all  believed  the  man  to  be  dead;  but 
Compton  exclaimed,  "I'll  go!"  turning  to  vault  his  horse, 
glad  of  something  to  do,  eager  to  escape  the  sight  of 
Fan's  agonized  face. 

The  dash  of  cold  water  on  his  bruised  face  brought  a 
flutter  of  life  to  Lester's  eyelids,  and  in  triumph  the  bride 
cried  out: 

"I  told  you  so!  He  is  alive!  Oh,  Dell,  can't  you 
speak  to  me?" 

He  could  not  so  much  as  lift  his  eyelids,  but  his  breath 
ing  deepened,  and  with  that  sign  of  returning  vitality 
Fan  was  forced  to  be  content.  She  was  perfectly  com 
posed  now,  and  helped  to  bathe  his  crushed  and  bleeding 
head  and  his  broken  shoulder  with  a  calmness  very  im 
pressive  to  all  those  who  were  permitted  to  glance  within 
the  room. 

Slowly  the  guests  departed.  The  cowboys,  low- 
voiced  and  funereal  of  mien,  rode  away  in  groups  of 
three  or  four. 

The  doctor  came  hurrying  down  the  slope  about  ten 
of  the  morning,  his  small  roan  mustang  galloping,  his 
case  of  instruments  between  his  feet.  He  was  very 
young,  and,  luckily,  very  self-confident,  and  took  charge 
of  "the  case"  with  thrilling  authority. 

"The  coma  was  induced,"  he  explained,  "by  the  con 
cussion  of  the  brain.  The  shoulder  is  also  badly  con 
tused  and  the  collar-bone  broken,  but  if  brain  fever 
does  not  set  in  the  man  will  live.  The  treatment 
so  far  as  it  has  gone  is  admirable." 

Compton  returned  with  him,  or  a  little  before  him, 
and  seemed  to  be  waiting  for  arrest.  He  was  a  lean, 
brown  young  fellow  with  good,  gray  eyes  and  a  shapely 

75 


THEY   OF   THE   HIGH   TRAILS 

nose.  "Yes,  I  threw  the  rope,"  he  confessed  to  every 
one.  "It  was  all  in  fun,  but  he  shot  my  horse,  and  as 
he  reared  up  he  jerked  the  people  out  of  the  buggy.  I 
guess  the  broncos  jumped  ahead  at  the  same  time.  But 
it  was  my  fault.  I  had  no  business  to  rope  'em.  In 
fact,  we  had  no  business  chasing  'em  up  at  all." 

At  last  Blondell  gruffly  told  him  to  go  home.  "  If  the 
man  dies  we'll  come  after  you,"  he  added,  with  blunt 
ferocity. 

"All  right,"  responded  the  young  fellow,  with  lofty 
spirit.  "I'll  be  there — but  I  want  to  see  Fan  a  moment 
before  I  leave.  I  want  to  know  if  there  is  anything  I 
can  do  for  her  or  him." 

Blondell  was  for  refusing  this  utterly,  but  his  wife 
said:  "You  didn't  mean  nothing,  Link — I'm  sure  of 
that— and  I've  always  liked  you,  and  so  has  Fan.  She 
won't  lay  it  up  against  you,  I  know.  I'll  tell  her  you're 
here." 

Fan,  sitting  beside  Lester's  bed,  turned  at  her  mother's 
word  and  saw  the  young  fellow  standing  in  the  doorway 
in  mute  appeal.  Her  glance  was  without  anger,  but  it 
was  cold  and  distant.  She  shook  her  head,  and  the 
young  rancher  turned  away,  shaken  with  sobs.  That 
look  was  worse  than  her  curse  had  been. 

From  the  dim,  grim  region  of  his  delirium  and  his 
death-like  unconsciousness  George  Lester  struggled 
slowly  back  to  life.  His  reawakening  was  like  a  new 
birth.  He  seemed  born  again,  this  time  an  American — 
a  Western  American.  In  the  measure  of  a  good  old 
homely  phrase,  some  sense  (a  sense  of  the  fundamental 
oneness  of  humanity)  had  been  beaten  into  his  head. 

As  he  lay  there,  helpless  and  suffering,  he  was  first  of 
all  aware  of  Fan,  whose  face  shone  above  him  like  the 

76 


THE    REMITTANCE   MAN 

moon,  and  was  soon  able  to  understand  her  unwearying 
devotion  and  to  remember  that  she  was  his  wife.  She 
was  always  present  when  he  woke,  and  he  accepted  her 
presence  as  he  accepted  sunshine,  knowing  nothing  of 
the  sleeplessness  and  toil  which  her  attendance  involved 
— a  knowledge  of  this  came  later. 

At  times  gruff  old  Blondell  himself  bent  his  shaggy  head 
above  his  bed  to  ask  how  he  felt,  and  no  mother  could 
have  been  more  considerate  than  Mrs.  Blondell. 

"What  right  have  I  to  despise  these  people?"  he  asked 
himself  one  day.  "What  have  I  done  to  lift  myself  above 
them?"  (And  this  question  extended  to  the  neighbors, 
to  the  awkward  ranchers  who  came  stiffly  and  with  a 
sort  of  awe  into  his  room  to  "pass  a  good  word,"  as  they 
said.)  "They  are  a  good  sort,  after  all" — his  heart 
prompted  him  to  admit. 

But  his  deepest  penitence,  his  tenderest  gratitude,  rose 
to  Fan,  whom  care  and  love  had  marvelously  refined. 
He  was  able  to  forget  her  careless  speech  and  to  look 
quite  through  her  untidy  ways  to  the  golden,  good  heart 
which  beat  beneath  her  unlovely  gowns.  Nothing  was 
too  hard,  too  menial,  for  her  hands,  and  her  smile  warmed 
his  midnight  sick-room  like  sunshine. 

He  was  curiously  silent  even  after  his  strength  was 
sufficient  for  speech.  Content  to  lie  on  his  bed  and 
watch  her  as  she  moved  about  him,  he  answered  only  in 
monosyllables,  while  the  deep  current  of  his  love  gath 
ered  below  his  reticence.  As  he  came  to  a  full  under 
standing  of  what  he  had  been  and  to  a  sense  of  his  un 
worthy  estimate  of  her  and  her  people,  his  passion  broke 
bounds. 

"Fan!"  he  called  out  one  morning,  "I'm  not  fit  to  re 
ceive  all  your  care  and  devotion — but  I'm  going  to  try 
to  be;  I'm  going  to  set  to  work  in  earnest  when  I  get  up. 

77 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

Your  people  shall  be  my  people,  your  cares  my  cares." 
He  could  not  go  on,  and  Fan,  who  was  looking  down  at 
him  in  wonder,  stooped  and  laid  a  kiss  on  his  quivering 
lips. 

"You  get  well,  boy;  that's  all  you  need  to  worry 
about,"  she  said,  and  her  face  was  very  sweet — for  she 
smiled  upon  him  as  if  he  were  a  child. 


THE  LONESOME  MAN 


— the  murderer  still  seeks  forgetful- 
ness  in  the  solitude,  building  his 
cabin  in  the  shadow  of  great  peaks. 


IV 
THE  LONESOME  MAN 

THE  road  that  leads  to  the  historic  north  shoulder  of 
Solidor  is  lonely  now.  The  stages  that  once  crawled 
painfully  upward  through  its  flowery  meadows  are  play 
houses  for  the  children  of  Silver  Plume,  and  the  brakes 
that  once  howled  so  resoundingly  on  the  downward 
way  are  rusting  to  ashes  in  the  weeds  that  spring  from 
the  soil  of  the  Silverado  Queen's  unused  corral.  The 
railway,  half  a  hundred  miles  to  the  north,  has  left  the 
famous  pass  to  solitude  and  to  grass. 

Once  a  week,  or  possibly  oftener,  a  cattleman  or  pros 
pector  rides  across,  or  a  little  band  of  tourists  plod  up 
or  down, — thinking  they  are  penetrating  to  the  heart  of 
the  Rockies, — but  for  the  most  part  the  trail  is  passing 
swiftly  to  the  unremembered  twilight  of  the  tragic  past. 
There  are,  it  is  true,  one  or  two  stamp-mills  above  Pcm- 
berton,  but  they  draw  their  supplies  from  the  valley 
to  the  west  and  not  from  the  plain's  cities,  and  the  upper 
camps  have  long  since  been  deserted  by  the  restless 
seeker  of  sudden  gold. 

It  is  a  desolate,  unshaded  country,  made  so  by  the 
reckless  hand  of  the  tenderfoot  prospector,  who,  in  the 
days  of  the  silver  rush,  cut  and  burned  the  timber  sin 
fully,  and  the  great  peaks  are  meticulated  with  the  rotting 
boles  of  noble  pines  and  spotted  with  the  decaying  stumps 

81 


THEY   OF   THE   HIGH   TRAILS 

of  the  firs  which  once  made  the  whole  land  as  beautiful 
as  a  park.  Here  and  there,  however,  a  segment  of  this 
splendid  ancient  forest  remains  to  give  some  hint  of 
what  the  ranges  were  before  the  destroying  horde  of 
silver-seekers  struck  and  scarred  it. 

Along  this  trail  and  above  the  last  vestige  of  its  stand 
ing  trees  a  man  could  be  seen,  walking  eastward  and  up 
ward,  one  bright  afternoon  in  August,  a  couple  of  years 
ago.  He  moved  slowly,  for  he  was  heavily  built  and 
obviously  not  much  used  to  climbing,  for  he  paused 
often  to  breathe.  The  air  at  that  altitude  is  thin  and, 
to  the  one  not  accustomed  to  it,  most  unsatisfying.  In 
the  intervals  of  his  pauses  the  traveler's  eyes  swept  the 
heights  and  explored  each  canon  wall  as  if  in  search  of 
a  resting-place.  Around  him  the  conies  cried  and  small 
birds  skimmed  from  ledge  to  ledge,  but  his  dark  face 
did  not  lighten  with  joy  of  the  beauty  which  shone  over 
his  head  nor  to  that  which  flamed  under  his  feet.  It 
was  plain  that  he  was  too  preoccupied  with  some  inner 
problem,  too  intent  on  his  quest,  to  give  eye  or  ear  to 
the  significance  of  bird  or  flower. 

Huge  Solidor,  bare  and  bleak,  rose  grandly  to  the 
north,  propping  the  high-piled  shining  clouds,  and  the 
somber,  dust-covered  fields  of  snow  showed  to  what 
far  height  his  proud  summit  soared  above  his  fellows. 
Little  streams  of  icy  water  trickled  through  close-knit, 
velvety  sward  whereon  small  flowers,  white  and  gold  and 
lilac,  showed  like  fairy  footprints.  Down  from  the 
pass  a  chill  wind,  delicious  and  invigorating,  rushed  as 
palpably  as  if  it  were  a  liquid  wave.  In  all  this  upper 
region  no  shelter  offered  to  the  tired  man. 

A  few  minutes  later,  as  he  rounded  the  sloping  green 
bastion  which  flanks  the  peak  to  the  south,  the  man's 
keen  eyes  lighted  upon  a  small  cabin  which  squatted  al- 

82 


THE    LONESOME    MAN 

most  unnoticeably  against  a  gray  ledge  some  five  hun 
dred  feet  higher  than  the  rock  whereon  he  stood.  The 
door  of  this  hut  was  open  and  the  figure  of  a  man, 
dwarfed  by  distance,  could  be  detected  intently  watching 
the  pedestrian  on  the  trail.  Unlike  most  cabin-dwellers, 
he  made  no  sign  of  greeting,  uttered  no  shout  of  cheer; 
on  the  contrary,  as  the  stranger  approached  he  disap 
peared  within  his  den  like  a  marmot. 

There  was  something  appealing  in  the  slow  mounting 
of  the  man  on  foot.  He  was  both  tired  and  breathless, 
and  as  he  neared  the  cabin  (which  was  built  on  ground 
quite  twelve  thousand  feet  above  sea-level)  his  limbs 
dragged,  and  every  step  he  made  required  his  utmost 
will.  Twice  he  stopped  to  recover  his  strength  and  to 
ease  the  beating  of  his  heart,  and  as  he  waited  thus  the 
last  time  the  lone  cabin-dweller  appeared  in  his  door  and 
silently  gazed,  confronting  his  visitor  with  a  strangely 
inhospitable  and  prolonged  scrutiny.  It  was  as  if  he 
were  a  lonely  animal,  jealous  of  his  ground  and  resent 
ful  even  of  the  most  casual  human  inspection. 

The  stranger,  advancing  near,  spoke.  "Is  this  the 
trail  to  Silver  Plume? "  he  asked,  his  heaving  breast 
making  his  speech  broken. 

"It  is,"  replied  the  miner,  whose  thin  face  and  hawk 
like  eyes  betrayed  the  hermit  and  the  man  on  guard. 

"How  far  is  it  across  the  pass?" 

"About  thirty  miles." 

"A  good  night's  walk.  Are  there  any  camps  above 
here?" 

"None." 

"How  far  is  it  to  the  next  cabin?" 

"Some  twelve  miles." 

The  miner,  still  studying  the  stranger  with  piercing 
intensity,  expressed  a  desire  to  be  reassured.  "What  are 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

you  doing  up  here  on  this  trail?    Are  you  a  mining  ex 
pert?     A  spy?"  he  seemed  to  ask. 

The  traveler,  divining  his  curiosity,  explained.  "I 
stayed  last  night  at  the  mill  below.  I'm  a  millwright. 
I  have  some  property  to  inspect  in  Silver  Plume,  hence 
I'm  walking  across.  I  didn't  know  it  was  so  far;  I 
was  misinformed.  I'm  not  accustomed  to  this  high  air 
and  I'm  used  up.  Can  you  take  care  of  me?" 

The  miner  glanced  round  at  the  heap  of  ore  which 
betrayed  his  craft,  and  then  back  at  the  dark,  bearded, 
impassive  face. 

"Come  in,"  he  said  at  last,  "I'll  feed  you."  But 
his  manner  was  at  once  surly  and  suspicious. 

The  walls  of  the  hovel  were  built  partly  of  logs  and 
partly  of  boulders,  and  its  roof  was  compacted  of  dirt 
and  gravel;  but  it  was  decently  habitable.  The  furni 
ture  (hand-rived  out  of  slabs)  was  scanty,  and  the  floor 
was  laid  with  planks,  yet  everything  indicated  many 
days  of  wear. 

"You've  been  here  some  time,"  the  stranger  remarked 
rather  than  asked. 

"Ten  years." 

Thereafter  the  two  men  engaged  in  a  silent  duel.  The 
millwright,  leaning  back  in  his  rude  chair,  stretched  his 
tired  limbs  and  gazed  down  the  valley  with  no  further 
word  of  inquiry,  while  his  grudging  host  prepared  a 
primitive  meal  and  set  it  upon  a  box  which  served  as 
a  table. 

"You  may  eat,"  he  curtly  said. 

In  complete  silence  and  with  calm  abstraction  the 
stranger  turned  to  the  food  and  ate  and  drank,  accept 
ing  it  all  as  if  this  were  a  roadhouse  and  he  a  paying 
guest.  The  sullen  watchfulness  of  his  host  seemed  not 
to  disturb  him,  not  even  to  interest  him. 

84 


THE    LONESOME    MAN 

At  length  the  miner  spoke  as  if  in  answer  to  a  ques 
tion — the  question  he  feared. 

"No,  my  mine  has  not  panned  out  well  —  not  yet. 
The  ore  is  low-grade  and  the  mill  is  too  far  away." 

To  this  informing  statement  the  other  man  did  not 
so  much  as  lift  an  eyebrow.  His  face  was  like  a  closed 
door,  his  eyes  were  curtained  windows.  He  mused 
darkly  as  one  who  broods  on  some  bitter  defeat. 

Nevertheless,  he  was  a  human  presence  and  the  lonely 
dweller  on  the  heights  could  not  resist  the  charm  of  his 
guest's  personality,  remote  as  he  seemed. 

"Where  do  you  live?"  he  asked. 

There  was  a  moment's  hesitation. 

"In  St.  Paul." 

"Ever  been  here  before?" 

The  dark  man  shook  his  shaggy  head  slowly,  and 
dropped  his  eyes  as  if  this  were  the  end  of  the  communi 
cation.  "No,  and  I  never  expect  to  come  again." 

The  miner  perceived  power  in  his  guest's  resolute 
taciturnity,  and  the  very  weight  of  the  silence  eventually 
opened  his  own  lips.  From  moment  to  moment  the  im 
pulse  to  talk  grew  stronger  within  him.  There  was 
something  as  compelling  as  heat  in  this  reticent  visitor 
whose  soul  was  so  intent  on  inward  problems  that  it 
perceived  nothing  of  interest  in  an  epaulet  of  gold  on 
the  shoulder  of  Mount  Solidor. 

"Few  come  this  trail  now,"  the  miner  volunteered,  as 
he  cleared  the  table.  "I  am  alone  and  seldom  see  a 
human  being  drifting  my  way.  I  do  not  invite  them." 

The  stranger  refilled  his  pipe  and  again  leaned  back 
against  the  wall  in  ponderous  repose.  If  he  heard  his 
host's  remark  he  gave  no  sign  of  it,  and  yet,  despite  the 
persistence  of  his  guest's  silence — perhaps  because  of 
it — the  lonely  gold-seeker  babbled  on  with  increasing 

85 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

candor,  contradicting  himself,  revealing,  hiding,  edging 
round  his  story,  confessing  to  his  hopes  of  riches,  be 
traying  in  the  end  the  secrets  of  his  lonely  life.  It  was 
as  if  the  gates  of  his  unnatural  reserve  had  broken  down 
and  the  desire  to  be  heard,  to  be  companioned,  had  over 
borne  all  his  early  caution. 

"It's  horribly  lonesome  up  here,"  he  confessed. 
"Sometimes  I  think  I'll  give  it  all  up  and  go  back  to 
civilization.  When  I  came  here  the  pass  had  its  traffic ; 
now  no  one  rides  it,  which  is  lucky  for  me,"  he  added. 
"I  have  no  prying  visitors — I  mean  no  one  to  contest 
my  claim — and  yet  a  man  can't  do  much  alone.  Even 
if  my  ore  richens  I  must  transport  it  or  build  a  mill. 
Sometimes  I  wonder  what  I'm  living  for,  stuck  away  in 
this  hole  in  the  hills.  I  was  born  to  better  things — " 

He  checked  himself  at  this  moment,  as  if  he  were  on 
the  edge  of  self-betrayal,  but  his  listener  seemed  not 
vitally  interested  in  these  personal  details.  However, 
he  made  some  low-voiced  remark,  and,  as  if  hypnotized, 
the  miner  resumed  his  monologue. 

"The  nights  are  the  worst.  They  are  endless — and 
sometimes  when  I  cannot  sleep  I  feel  like  surrendering 
to  my  fate — ' '  Here  again  he  broke  off  sharply.  '  *  That's 
nonsense,  of  course.  I  mean,  it  seems  as  if  a  life  were 
too  much  to  pay  for  a  crazy  act — I  mean  a  mine. 
You'll  ask  why  I  don't  sell  it,  but  it's  all  I  have  and, 
besides,  no  one  has  any  faith  in  it  but  myself.  I  can 
not  sell,  and  I  can't  live  down  there  among  men." 

Gabbling,  keeping  time  to  his  nervous  feet  and  hands, 
endlessly  repeating  himself,  denying,  confessing,  the 
miner  raged  on,  and  through  it  all  the  dark-browed 
guest  smoked  tranquilly,  too  indifferent  to  ask  a  question 
or  make  comment;  but  when,  once  or  twice,  he  lifted 
his  eyes,  the  garrulous  one  shuddered  and  turned  away, 

86 


THE    LONESOME    MAN 

a  scared  look  on  his  haggard  face.  He  seemed  unable 
to  endure  that  steady  glance. 

At  last,  for  a  little  space,  he  remained  silent;  then,  as 
if  compelled  by  some  increasing  magic  in  his  hearer,  he 
burst  forth: 

"I'm  not  here  entirely  by  my  own  fault — I  mean  my 
own  choice.  A  man  is  a  product  of  his  environment, 
you  know  that,  and  mine  made  me  idle,  wasteful.  Drink 
got  me — drink  made  me  mad — and  so — and  so — here 
I  am  struggling  to  win  back  a  fortune.  Once  I  gambled 
— on  the  wheel;  now  I  am  gambling  with  nature  on 
the  green  of  these  mountain  slopes;  but  I'll  win  —  I  have 
already  won — and  soon  I  shall  sell  and  go  back  to  the 
great  cities." 

Again  his  will  curbed  his  treacherous  tongue,  and, 
walking  to  the  doorway,  he  stood  for  a  moment,  looking 
out;  then  he  fiercely  snarled: 

"Oh,  God,  how  I  hate  it  all — how  I  hate  myself!  I 
am  going  mad  with  this  life !  The  squeak  of  these  shad 
owy  conies,  the  twitter  of  these  unseen  little  birds,  go 
on  day  by  day.  They'll  drive  me  mad!  If  you  had 
not  come  to-night  I  could  not  have  slept — I  would  have 
gone  to  the  mill,  and  that  means  drink  to  me — drink 
and  oblivion.  You  came  and  saved  me.  I  feared  you — 
hated  you  then;  now  I  bless  you." 

Once  more  he  seemed  to  answer  an  unspoken  query: 

"I  have  no  people.  My  mother  is  dead,  my  father 
has  disowned  me  —  he  does  not  even  know  I  am  alive. 
I'm  the  black  devil  of  the  family — but  I  shall  go  back — " 

His  face  was  working  with  passion,  and  though  he 
took  a  seat  opposite  his  guest,  his  hands  continued  to 
flutter  aimlessly  and  his  head  moved  restlessly  from  side 
to  side. 

"I  don't  know  why  I  am  telling  all  this  to  you,"  he 
7  87 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

went  on  after  a  pause.  "I  reckon  it's  because  of  the 
weakness  of  the  thirst  that  is  coming  over  me.  Some 
time  I'll  go  down  to  those  hell-holes  at  the  mills  and 
never  come  back — the  stuff  they  sell  to  me  is  destructive 
as  fire — it  is  poison !  You're  a  man  of  substance,  I  can 
see  that — you're  no  hobo  like  most  of  the  fellows  out 
here — that's  why  I'm  talking  to  you.  You  remind  me 
of  some  one  I  know.  There's  something  familiar  in 
your  eyes." 

The  man  with  the  beard  struck  the  ashes  from  his 
pipe  and  began  scraping  it.  "There  is  always  a  woman 
in  these  cases,"  he  critically  remarked. 

The  miner  took  this  simple  statement  as  a  challenging 
question.  His  excitement  visibly  increased,  but  he  did 
not  at  once  reply.  He  talked  on  aimlessly,  incoherently, 
struggling  like  a  small  animal  in  a  torrent.  He  rose  at 
last,  and  as  he  stood  in  the  doorway,  breathing  deeply, 
his  face  livid  in  the  sunset  light,  the  muscles  of  his  jaw 
trembled. 

The  stranger  observed  his  host's  agitation,  but  put 
away  his  pipe  with  slow  and  steady  hand.  He  said 
nothing,  and  yet  an  observer  would  have  declared  he 
held  the  other  and  weaker  man  in  the  grasp  of  an  in 
exorable  hypnotic  silence.  Finally  he  fixed  a  calm,  cold 
glance  upon  his  host,  as  if  summoning  him  to  answer. 

"Yes,"  the  miner  confessed,  "there  is  always  a  woman 
in  the  case — another  and  more  fortunate  man.  The 
woman  is  false,  the  man  is  treacherous.  You  trust  and 
they  betray.  Such  beings  ruin  and  madden  —  they 
make  outlaws  such  as  I  am —  " 

"Love  is  above  will,"  asserted  the  millwright,  with 
decision. 

The  other  man  fiercely  turned.  "I  know  what  you 
mean — you  mean  the  woman  is  not  to  be  condemned — 

88 


THE    LONESOME    MAN 

that  love  goes  where  it  is  drawn.  That  is  true,  but 
deceit  is  not  involuntary — it  is  deliberate — " 

"Sometimes  we  deceive  ourselves." 

"In  her  case  it  was  deceit,"  retorted  the  miner,  who 
was  now  so  deeply  engaged  with  his  own  story  that 
each  general  observation  on  the  part  of  his  guest  was 
taken  to  be  specific  and  personal. 

The  room  was  growing  dusky,  and  the  stranger's 
glance  appeared  keener,  more  insistent,  as  his  body 
melted  into  the  shadow.  His  shaggy  head  and  black 
beard  all  but  disappeared;  only  the  faint  outlines  of  his 
forehead  remained,  and  yet,  as  his  physical  self  faded 
into  the  gloom,  his  personality,  his  psychic  self,  loomed 
larger.  His  will  enveloped  the  hermit,  drawing  upon 
him  with  irresistible  power.  It  was  as  if  he  wer«e  wring 
ing  him  dry  of  a  confession  as  the  priest  closes  in  upon 
the  culprit. 

"I  had  my  happy  days — my  days  of  care-free  youth," 
the  unquiet  man  was  saying.  ' '  But  my  time  of  innocence 
was  short.  Evil  companions  came  early  and  reckless 
deeds  followed.  ...  I  knew  I  was  losing  something,  I 
knew  I  was  being  drawn  downward,  but  I  could  not  es 
cape.  Day  and  night  I  called  for  help,  and  then — she 
came—" 

"Who  came?" 

"The  one  who  made  me  forget  all  the  others,  the  one 
who  made  me  ashamed." 

"And  then?" 

"And  then  for  a  time  I  was  happy  in  the  hope  that 
I  might  win  her  and  so  redeem  my  life." 

"And  she?" 

"She  pitied  me — at  first — and  loved  me — at  least  I 
thought  so." 

As  his  excitement  increased  his  words  came  slower, 
89 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

burdened  with  passion.     He  spoke  like  a  prisoner  ad 
dressing  a  judge,  his  voice  but  a  husky  whisper. 

"I  told  her  I  was  unworthy  of  her — that  was  when 
I  believed  her  to  be  an  angel.  I  promised  to  begin  a 
new  life  for  her  sake.  Then  she  promised  me — helped 
me — and  all  the  while  she  was  false  to  me — false  as  a 
hell-cat!" 

"How?"  queried  the  almost  invisible  man,  and  his 
voice  was  charged  with  stern  demand. 

"All  the  time  she  was  promised  to  another  man — and 
that  man  my  enemy." 

Here  his  frenzy  flared  forth  in  a  torrent  of  words. 

"Then — then  I  went  mad.  My  brain  was  scarred 
and  numb.  I  lost  all  sense  of  pity — all  fear  of  law — all 
respect  for  woman.  I  only  knew  my  wrongs — my 
despair — my  hate.  I  watched,  I  waited,  I  found  them 
together—" 

"And  then?  What  did  you  do  then?"  demanded  the 
stranger,  rising  from  his  seat  with  sudden  energy,  his  voice 
deep,  insistent,  masterful.  "Tell  me  what  you  did?" 

The  miner's  wild  voice  died  to  a  hesitant  whisper.  "  I 
—I  fled." 

"But  before  that— before  you  fled?" 

"What  is  it  to  you?"  asked  the  hermit,  gazing  with 
scared  eyes  at  the  man  who  towered  above  him  like  the 
demon  of  retribution.  "Who  are  you?" 

"I  am  the  avenger!"  answered  the  other.  "The  man 
you  hated  was  my  brother.  The  woman  you  killed  was 
his  wife." 

The  fugitive  fell  upon  his  knees  with  a  cry  like  that 
of  one  being  strangled. 

Out  of  the  darkness  a  red  flame  darted,  and  the 
crouching  man  fell  to  the  floor,  a  crumpled,  bloody 
heap. 

90 


THE    LONESOME    MAN 

For  a  long  time  the  executioner  stood  above  the 
body,  waiting,  listening  from  the  shadow  to  the  faint 
receding  breath-strokes  of  his  victim.  When  all  was  still 
he  restored  his  weapon  to  its  sheath  and  stepped  over 
the  threshold  into  the  keen  and  pleasant  night. 

As  he  closed  the  door  behind  him  the  stranger  raised 
his  eyes  to  Solidor,  whose  sovereign,  cloud-like  crest 
swayed  among  the  stars. 

"Now  I  shall  rest,"  he  said,  with  solemn  satisfaction. 


THE  TRAIL  TRAMP 


— mounted  wanderer,  horseman  of 
the  restless  hearty  still  rides  from 
place  to  place,  contemptuous  of  gold, 
carrying  in  his  parfteche  all  the  van 
ishing  traditions  of  the  West. 


V 
THE  TRAIL  TRAMP 


KELLEY  AFOOT 


TV'ELLEY  was  in  off  the  *range  and  in  profound  dis- 
FV  gust  with  himself,  for  after  serving  honorably  as 
line-rider  and  later  as  cow-boss  for  ten  years  or  more, 
he  had  ridden  over  to  Keno  to  meet  an  old  comrade. 
Just  how  it  happened  he  couldn't  tell,  but  he  woke  one 
morning  without  a  dollar  and,  what  was  worse,  incred 
ibly  worse,  without  horse  or  saddle  !  Even  his  revolver 
was  gone. 

In  brief,  Tall  Ed,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  was  set 
afoot,  and  this,  you  must  understand,  is  a  most  dire 
ful  disaster  in  cowboy  life.  It  means  that  you  must 
begin  again  from  the  ground  up,  as  if  you  were  a  per 
fectly  new  tenderfoot  from  Nebraska. 

Fort  Keno  was,  of  course,  not  a  real  fort;  but  it  was 
a  real  barracks.  The  town  was  an  imitation  town. 
The  fort,  spick,  span,  in  rows,  with  nicely  planted  trees 
and  green  grass-plats  (kept  in  condition  at  vast  expense 
to  the  War  Department)  ,  stood  on  the  bank  of  the  slug 
gish  river,  while  just  below  it  and  across  the  stream 
Sprawled  the  town,  drab,  flea-bitten,  unkempt,  littered 

95 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

with  tin  cans  and  old  bottles,  a  collection  of  saloons, 
gambling-houses  and  nameless  dives,  with  a  few  people — 
a  very  few — making  an  honest  living  by  selling  groceries, 
saddles,  and  coal-oil. 

Among  the  industries  of  Keno  City  was  a  livery-and- 
sales  stable,  and  Kelle}^  with  intent  to  punish  himself, 
at  once  applied  for  the  position  of  hostler.  "You 
durned  fool,"  he  said,  addressing  himself,  "as  you've 
played  the  drunken  Injun,  suppose  you  play  valet  to  a 
lot  of  mustangs  for  a  while." 

As  a  disciplinary  design  he  felicitated  himself  as 
having  hit  upon  the  most  humiliating  and  distasteful 
position  in  Keno.  It  was  understood  that  Harford  of 
the  Cottonwood  Corral  never  hired  a  real  man  as  host 
ler.  He  seemed  to  prefer  bums  and  tramps,  either  because 
he  could  get  them  cheaper  or  else  because  no  decent  man 
would  work  for  him.  He  was  an  "arbitrary  cuss"  and 
ready  with  gun  or  boot.  He  came  down  a  long  trail  of 
weather-worn  experiences  in  the  Southwest,  and  showed 
it  in  both  face  and  voice.  He  was  a  big  man  who  had 
once  been  fatter,  but  his  wrinkled  and  sour  visage  seldom 
crinkled  into  a  smile.  He  had  never  been  jolly,  and  he 
was  now  morose. 

Kelley  hated  him.  That,  too,  was  another  part  of  his 
elaborate  scheme  of  self -punishment — hated,  but  did 
not  fear  him,  for  Tall  Ed  Kelley  feared  nothing  that 
walked  the  earth  or  sailed  the  air.  "You  bum,"  he 
continued  to  say  in  bitter  derision  as  he  caught  glimpses 
of  himself  of  a  morning  in  the  little  fragment  of  broken 
glass  which,  being  tacked  on  the  wall,  served  as  mirror 
in  the  office.  "You  durned  mangy  coyote,  you  need  a 
shave,  but  you  won't  get  it.  You  need  a  clean  shirt  and 
a  new  bandanna,  but  you  won't  get  them,  neither — not 
yet  awhile.  You'll  earn  'em  by  going  without  a  drop 

96 


KELLEY    AFOOT 

of  whisky  and  by  forking  manure  fer  the  next  six  months. 
You  hear  me?" 

He  slept  in  the  barn  on  a  soiled,  ill-smelling  bunk, 
and  his  hours  of  repose  were  broken  by  calls  on  the 
telephone  or  by  some  one  beating  at  the  door  late  at 
night  or  early  in  the  morning;  but  he  always  responded 
without  a  word  of  complaint.  It  was  all  lovely  dis 
cipline.  It  was  like  batting  a  measly  bronco  over  the 
head  in  correction  of  some  grievous  fault  (like  nipping 
your  calf,  for  example),  and  he  took  a  grim  satisfaction 
in  going  about  degraded  and  forgotten  of  his  fellows,  for 
no  one  in  Keno  knew  that  this  grimy  hostler  was  cow- 
boss  on  the  Perco.  This,  in  a  certain  degree,  softened 
his  disgrace  and  lessened  his  punishment,  but  he  couldn't 
quite  bring  himself  to  the  task  of  explaining  just  how 
he  had  come  to  leave  the  range  and  go  into  service  with 
Harford. 

The  officers  of  the  fort,  when  tired  of  the  ambulance, 
occasionally  took  out  a  team  and  covered  rig,  and  so 
Kelley  came  in  contact  with  the  commanding  officer, 
Major  Dugan,  a  fine  figure  of  a  man  with  carefully  bar- 
bered  head  and  immaculate  uniform.  In  Kelley's  esti 
mation  he  was  almost  too  well  kept  for  a  man  nearing 
fifty.  He  was,  indeed,  a  gallant  to  whom  comely  women 
were  still  the  fairest  kind  of  game. 

In  truth,  Tall  Ed  as  hostler  often  furnished  the  major 
with  a  carriage,  in  which  to  make  some  of  his  private 
expeditions,  and  this  was  another  and  final  disgrace 
which  the  cowman  perceived  and  commented  upon. 
To  .assist  an  old  libertine  like  the  major  in  concealing 
his  night  journeys  was  the  nethermost  deep  of  "self- 
discipline,"  but  when  the  pretty  young  wife  of  his  em 
ployer  became  the  object  of  the  major's  attention  Kelley 
was  thrown  into  doubt. 

97 


THEY   OF   THE   HIGH   TRAILS 

Anita  Harford,  part  Spanish  and  part  German,  as 
sometimes  happens  in  New  Mexico,  was  a  curious  and 
interesting  mixture  with  lovely  golden-brown  hair  and 
big,  dark-brown  eyes.  She  had  the  ingratiating  smile 
of  the  senora,  her  mother,  and  the  moods  of  gravity, 
almost  melancholy,  of  her  father. 

She  had  been  away  in  Albuquerque  during  the  first 
week  of  Kelley 's  hostlership,  and  though  he  had  heard 
something  of  her  from  the  men  about  the  corral,  he 
had  no  great  interest  in  her  till  she  came  one  afternoon 
to  the  door  of  the  stable,  where  she  paused  like  a  snow- 
white,  timid  antelope  and  softly  said: 

4 '  Are  you  the  new  hostler  ?" 

"I  am,  miss." 

She  smiled  at  his  mistake.  "I  am  Mrs.  Harford. 
Please  let  me  have  the  single  buggy  and  bay  Nellie." 

Kelley  concealed  his  surprise.  "Sure  thing,  mom. 
Want  her  right  now?" 

"If  you  please." 

As  she  moved  away  so  lightly  and  so  daintily  Kelley 
stared  in  stupefaction.  "Guess  I've  miscalculated  some 
where.  Old  Harf  must  have  more  drag  into  him  than 
I  made  out.  How  did  the  old  seed  get  a  woman  like 
that?  Tears  like  he's  the  champion  hypnotic  spieler 
when  it  comes  to  'skirts.'" 

He  hitched-up  the  horse  in  profound  meditation.  For 
the  first  time  since  his  downfall  his  humiliation  seemed 
just  a  trifle  deeper  than  was  necessary.  He  regretted 
his  filthy  shirt  and  his  unshorn  cheeks,  and  as  he  brought 
the  horse  around  to  the  door  of  the  boss's  house  he  slipped 
out  of  the  buggy  on  the  off  side,  hurriedly  tethered  the 
mare  to  the  pole,  and  retreated  to  his  alley  like  a  rat 
to  its  burrow.  The  few  moments  when  Anita's  clear  eyes 
had  rested  upon  him  had  been  moments  of  self -revelation. 


KELLEY   AFOOT 

"Kelley,  you're  all  kinds  of  a  blankety  fool,"  said  he. 
"You're  causing  yourself  a  whole  lot  of  extra  misery 
and  you're  a  disgustin'  object,  besides.  It  isn't  neces 
sary  fer  you  to  be  a  skunk  in  order  to  give  yourself  a 
welting.  Go  now  and  get  a  shave  and  a  clean  shirt, 
and  start  again." 

This  he  did,  and  out  of  his  next  week's  pay  he  bought 
a  clean  pair  of  overalls  and  a  new  sombrero,  so  that  when 
he  came  back  to  the  barn  Harford  was  disturbed. 

"Hope  you  aren't  going  to  pull  out,  Kelley?  You 
suit  me,  and  if  it's  a  question  of  pay,  I'll  raise  you  a 
couple  of  dollars  on  a  week." 

"Oh  no,  I'm  not  leaving.  Only  I  jest  felt  like  I  was 
a  little  too  measly.  Tears  like  I  ought  to  afford  a  clean 
shirt.  It  does  make  a  heap  of  difference  in  the  looks  of 
a  feller.  No,  I'm  booked  to  stay  with  you  fer  a  while 
yet." 

Naturally  thereafter  little  Mrs.  Harford  filled  a  large 
place  in  Kelley's  gloomy  world.  He  was  not  a  romantic 
person,  but  he  was  often  lonesome  in  the  midst  of  his  self- 
imposed  penance.  He  forbade  himself  the  solace  of  the 
saloon.  He  denied  himself  a  day  or  even  an  hour  off 
duty,  and  Harford,  secretly  amazed  and  inwardly  de 
lighted,  went  so  far  one  day  as  to  offer  him  a  cigar. 

Kelley  waved  it  away.  "No,  I've  cut  out  the  to 
bacco,  too." 

This  astounded  his  boss.  "Say,  it's  a  wonder  you 
escaped  the  ministry." 

"It's  more  of  a  wonder  than  you  know,"  replied 
Kelley.  "I  was  headed  right  plumb  that  way  till  I 
was  seventeen.  My  mother  had  it  all  picked  out  fer 
me.  Then  I  broke  away." 

Harford,  with  the  instinctive  caution  of  the  plains 
man,  pursued  the  subject  no  further,  He  was  content 

99 


THEY    OF   THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

to  know  that  for  a  very  moderate  wage  he  had  secured 
the  best  man  with  horses  that  the  stable  had  ever  known. 
His  only  anxiety  related  to  the  question  of  keeping  his 
find. 

"Kelley's  too  good  to  be  permanent,"  he  said  to  his 
wife  that  night.  "He'll  skip  out  with  one  of  the  best 
saddle-horses  some  night,  or  else  he'll  go  on  a  tearing 
drunk  and  send  the  whole  outfit  up  in  smoke.  I  don't 
understand  the  cuss.  He  looks  like  the  usual  hobo  out 
of  a  job,  but  he's  as  abstemious  as  a  New  England  deacon. 
Tears  like  he  has  no  faults  at  all." 

Anita  had  been  attracted  to  Kelley,  lowly  as  he 
looked,  and,  upon  hearing  his  singular  virtues  recounted 
by  her  husband,  opened  her  eyes  in  augmented  in 
terest.  All  the  men  in  her  world  were  rough.  Her 
father  drank,  her  brothers  fought  and  swore  and  cheated, 
and  her  husband  was  as  free  of  speech  in  her  presence 
as  if  she  were  another  kind  of  man,  softening 'his  words 
a  little,  but  not  much.  Therefore,  the  next  time  she 
met  Kelley  she  lingered  to  make  conversation  with  him, 
rejoicing  in  his  candid  eyes  and  handsome  face.  She 
observed  also  that  his  shirt  was  clean  and  his  tie  new. 
"He  looks  almost  like  a  soldier,"  she  thought,  and  this 
was  her  highest  compliment. 

Surrounded  as  she  was  by  gamblers,  horse-jockeys, 
cattle-buyers,  and  miners,  all  (generally  speaking)  of 
the  same  slouchy,  unkempt  type,  she  recognized  in  the 
officers  of  the  fort  gentlemen  of  highest  breeding  and 
radiant  charm.  Erect,  neat,  brisk  of  step,  the  lieuten 
ants  on  parade  gave  off  something  so  alien,  yet  so  sweet, 
that  her  heart  went  out  to  them  collectively,  and  when 
they  lifted  their  caps  to  her  individually,  she  smiled 
upon  them  all  with  childish  unconsciousness  of  their 
dangerous  qualities. 

100 


KELLEY   AFOOT 

Most  of  the  younger  unmarried  men  took  these  smiles 
to  be  as  they  were,  entirely  without  guile.  Others  spoke 
jestingly  (in  private)  of  her  attitude,  but  were  inclined 
to  respect  Harford's  reputation  as  a  gunman.  Only 
the  major  himself  was  reckless  enough  to  take  advantage 
of  the  young  wife's  admiration  for  a  uniform. 

Kelley  soon  understood  the  situation.  His  keen  eyes 
and  sensitive  ears  informed  him  of  the  light  estimation 
in  which  his  employer's  wife  was  held  by  the  major; 
but  at  first  he  merely  said,  "This  is  none  of  your  funeral, 
Kelley.  Stick  to  your  currycomb.  Harford  is  able  to 
take  care  of  his  own." 

This  good  resolution  weakened  the  very  next  time 
Anita  met  him  and  prettily  praised  him.  "Mr.  Har 
ford  says  you  are  the  best  man  he  ever  had,  and  I  think 
that  must  be  so,  for  my  pony  never  looked  so  clean  and 
shiny." 

Kelley  almost  blushed,  for  (as  a  matter  of  faithful 
history)  he  had  spent  a  great  deal  of  time  brushing  bay 
Nellie.  She  did  indeed  shine  like  a  bottle,  and  her 
harness,  newly  oiled  and  carefully  burnished,  glittered 
as  if  composed  of  jet  and  gold. 

1 '  Oh,  that's  all  right ;  it's  a  part  of  my  job, ' '  he  replied, 
as  carelessly  as  he  could  contrive.  "  I  like  a  good  horse  " 
— "and  a  pretty  woman,"  he  might  have  added,  but  he 
didn't. 

Although  Anita  lingered  as  if  desiring  a  word  or  two 
more,  the  tall  hostler  turned  resolutely  away  and  dis 
appeared  into  the  stable. 

Bay  Nellie,  as  the  one  dependable  carriage-horse  in 
the  outfit  of  broncos,  had  been  set  aside  for  the  use 
of  Anita  and  her  friends,  but  Kelley  had  orders  from 
Harford  to  let  the  mare  out  whenever  the  women  did  not 
need  her,  provided  a  kindly  driver  was  assured,  and  so 

101 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

it  happened  that  the  wives  of  the  officers  occasionally 
used  her,  although  none  of  them  could  be  called  friends 
or  even  acquaintances  of  little  Mrs.  Harford. 

Kelley  observed  their  distant,  if  not  contemptuous, 
nods  to  his  employer's  wife  as  they  chanced  to  meet  her 
on  the  street,  but  he  said  no  word,  even  when  some  of 
the  town  loafers  frankly  commented  on  it.  He  owed 
nothing  to  Harford.  "It's  not  my  job  to  defend  his 
wife's  reputation."  Nevertheless,  it  made  him  hot 
when  he  heard  one  of  these  loafers  remark:  "I  met  the 
old  major  the  other  evening  driving  along  the  river 
road  with  Harf's  wife.  Somebody  better  warn  the 
major,  or  there'll  be  merry  hell  and  a  military  funeral 
one  of  these  days." 

"I  reckon  you're  mistaken,"  said  Kelley. 

"Not  by  a  whole  mile!  It  was  dark,  but  not  so  dark 
but  that  I  could  see  who  they  were.  They  were  in  a 
top  buggy,  drivin*  that  slick  nag  the  old  man  is  so 
choice  about." 

"When  was  it?"  asked  Kelley. 

"Night  before  last.  I  met  'em  up  there  just  at  the 
bend  of  the  river." 

Kelley  said  no  more,  for  he  remembered  that  Anita 
had  called  for  the  horse  on  that  date  just  about  sun 
down,  and  had  driven  away  alone.  She  returned  alone 
about  ten — at  least,  she  drove  up  to  the  stable  door 
alone,  but  he  recalled  hearing  the  low  tones  of  a  man's 
voice  just  before  she  called. 

It  made  him  sad  and  angry.  He  muttered  an  im 
precation  against  the  whole  world  of  men,  himself  in 
cluded.  "If  I  hadn't  seen  her — if  I  didn't  know  how 
sweet  and  kind  and  pretty  she  was — I  wouldn't  mind," 
he  said  to  himself.  "But  to  think  of  a  little  babe  like 
her — "  He  checked  himself.  "That  old  cockalorum 

102 


KELLEY   AFOOT 

needs  killing.     I  wonder  if  I've  got  to  do  it?"  he  asked 
in  conclusion. 


II 

Harf ord  came  home  the  next  day,  and  for  several  weeks 
there  was  no  further  occasion  for  gossip,  although  Kelley 
had  his  eyes  on  the  major  so  closely  that  he  could 
neither  come  nor  go  without  having  his  action  analyzed. 
He  kept  close  record  of  Anita's  coming  and  going  also, 
although  it  made  him  feel  like  a  scoundrel  whenever 
she  glanced  at  him.  He  was  sure  she  was  only  the 
thoughtless  child  in  all  her  indiscretions,  with  a  child's 
romantic  admiration  of  a  handsome  uniform. 

"I'll  speak  to  her,"  he  resolved.  "I'll  hand  her  out 
a  word  of  warning  just  to  clear  my  conscience.  She 
needs  a  big  brother  or  an  uncle — some  one  to  give  her 
a  jolt,  and  I'll  doit!" 

The  opportunity  came  one  day  soon  after  Harford's 
return,  but  his  courage  almost  failed  at  the  moment 
of  meeting,  so  dainty,  so  small,  so  charming,  and  so  bird- 
like  did  the  young  wife  seem. 

She  complimented  him  again  on  the  condition  of  the 
mare  and  asked,  timidly,  "How  much  does  my  husband 
pay  you?" 

"More  than  I'm  worth,"  he  replied,  with  gloomy  self- 
depreciation. 

She  caught  the  note  of  bitterness  in  his  voice  and 
looked  at  him  a  moment  in  surprised  silence,  her  big  eyes 
full  of  question.  "What  made  you  say  that?" 

Kelley,  repenting  of  his  lack  of  restraint,  smiled  and 
said:  "Oh,  I  felt  that  way — for  a  minute.  You  see,  I 
used  to  lead  a  high  life  of  ease.  I  was  a  nobleman — an 
Irish  lord." 

8  103 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

She  smiled  and  uttered  an  incredulous  word,  but  he 
went  on: 

"Yes,  although  my  name  is  Kelley,  I  belong  to  a  long 
line  of  kings.  I'm  working  as  hostler  just  to  square 
myself  fer  having  killed  a  man.  You  see,  my  queen 
was  kind  o'  foolish  and  reckless  and  let  a  certain  English 
duke  hang  round  her  till  I  got  locoed,  and,  being  nat 
urally  quick  on  the  trigger,  I  slew  him." 

She  was  not  stupid.  She  understood,  and  with  quick, 
resentful  glance  she  took  the  reins  from  his  hands  and 
stepped  into  the  carriage. 

Kelley,  silenced,  and  with  a  feeling  that  he  had  bungled 
his  job,  fell  back  a  pace,  while  she  drove  away  without 
so  much  as  a  backward  glance. 

"  I  reckon  she  got  it,"  he  said,  grimly,  as  he  went  back 
to  his  work.  "  I  didn't  put  it  out  just  the  way  I  had  it 
in  my  head,  but  she  'peared  to  sense  enough  of  it  to 
call  me  a  Piute  for  butting  in.  If  that  don't  work  on 
her  I'll  tack  a  warning  on  the  major  which  nobody  will 
misread  fer  a  joke." 

As  the  hours  of  the  afternoon  went  by  he  became  more 
and  more  uneasy.  "I  hope  she'll  turn  up  before  dark, 
fer  Harf  is  liable  to  get  back  any  minute,"  he  said  a 
dozen  times,  and  when  at  last  he  saw  her  coming  up  the 
street  with  a  woman  in  the  seat  beside  her  he  breathed 
deeply  and  swore  heartily  in  his  relief.  "I  guess  my 
parable  kind  o'  worked,"  he  said,  exultantly.  "She's 
kept  clear  of  the  old  goat  this  trip." 

The  little  lady  stopped  her  horse  at  the  door  of  the 
stable  and  with  a  cool  and  distant  nod  alighted  and 
walked  away. 

"I'm  the  hostler  now — sure  thing,"  grinned  Kelley. 
"No  raise  of  pay  fer  Tall  Ed  this  week." 

He  was  in  reality  quite  depressed  by  the  change  in 
104 


KELLEY    AFOOT 

her  attitude  toward  him.  "  Reckon  I  didn't  get  just 
the  right  slaunch  on  that  warning  of  mine — and  yet 
at  the  same  time  she  ought  to  have  seen  I  meant  it 
kindly. — Oh  well,  hell!  it's  none  o'  my  funeral,  anyway. 
Harford  is  no  green  squash,  he's  a  seasoned  old  warrior 
who  ought  to  know  when  men  are  stealing  his  wife." 
And  he  went  back  to  his  dusty  duties  in  full  determina 
tion  to  see  nothing  and  do  nothing  outside  the  barn. 

Nevertheless,  when,  thereafter,  anybody  from  the  fort 
asked  for  bay  Nellie,  he  gave  out  that  she  was  engaged, 
and  the  very  first  time  the  major  asked  for  the  mare 
Kelley  not  only  brusquely  said,  "She's  in  use,"  but 
hung  up  the  receiver  in  the  midst  of  the  major's  ex 
planation. 

The  town  gossips  were  all  busy  with  the  delightful 
report  that  Mrs.  Harford  had  again  been  seen  driving 
with  the  major,  whose  reputation  for  gallantry,  mon 
strously  exaggerated  by  the  reek  of  the  saloons,  made 
even  a  single  hour  of  his  company  a  dash  of  pitch  to 
the  best  of  women.  Kelley  speculated  on  just  how  long 
it  would  take  Harford  to  learn  of  these  hints  against 
his  wife.  Some  of  his  blunt  followers  were  quite  cap 
able  of  telling  him  in  so  many  words  that  the  major  was 
doing  him  wrong,  and  when  they  did  an  explosion  would 
certainly  take  place. 

One  day  a  couple  of  Harford's  horses,  standing  before 
the  stable,  became  frightened  and  ran  away  up  the 
street.  Kelley,  leaping  upon  one  of  the  fleetest  broncos 
in  the  stalls,  went  careering  in  pursuit  just  as  Anita 
came  down  the  walk.  He  was  a  fine  figure  of  a  man 
even  when  slouching  about  the  barn,  but  mounted  he 
was  magnificent.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ridden 
since  the  loss  of  his  own  outfit,  and  the  feel  of  a  vigor 
ous  steed  beneath  his  thighs,  the  noise  of  pounding  feet, 

icx 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

the  rush  of  air,  filled  his  heart  with  mingled  exultation 
and  regret.  He  was  the  centaur  again. 

Anita  watched  him  pass  and  disappear  with  a  feeling 
of  surprise  as  well  as  of  admiration.  She  was  skilled 
in  reading  the  character  of  men  on  horseback,  and 
peculiarly  sensitive  to  such  an  exhibition  of  grace  and 
power.  Her  hostler  was  transformed  into  something  new 
and  wholly  admirable,  and  she  gladly  took  the  trouble 
to  watch  for  his  return,  as  she  could  not  witness  the 
roping  and  the  skilful  subduing  of  the  outlaws. 

The  picture  he  made  as  he  tore  along,  swinging  his  rope, 
had  displaced  that  of  the  dirty,  indifferent  hostler,  and 
Anita  thereafter  looked  upon  him  with  respect,  notwith 
standing  his  presumptuous  warning,  which  still  lay  heavy 
in  her  ears. 

She  still  resented  his  interference,  but  she  resented  it 
less  now  that  she  knew  him  better.  She  began  to  wonder 
about  him.  Who  was  he?  Why  was  he  the  hostler? 
Naturally,  being  wise  in  certain  ways  of  men,  she  in 
ferred  that  strong  drink  had  "set  him  afoot";  but 
when  she  hesitantly  approached  her  husband  on  this 
point,  his  reply  was  brusque:  "I  don't  know  anything 
about  Kelley,  and  don't  want  to  know.  So  long  as  he 
does  his  work  his  family  vault  is  safe." 

Still  desiring  to  be  informed,  she  turned  to  her  ser 
vants,  with  no  better  results;  they  knew  very  little  about 
Tall  Ed,  "but  we  like  him,"  they  were  free  to  say. 

This  newly  discovered  mystery  in  the  life  of  her 
hostler  accomplished  what  his  warning  had  failed  to 
do;  it  caused  her  to  neglect  her  correspondence  with  the 
major.  His  letter  lay  in  a  hollow  willow-tree  on  the 
river  road  unread  for  nearly  a  week.  And  when,  one 
afternoon,  she  finally  rode  by  to  claim  it,  her  interest  was 
strangely  dulled.  The  spice  of  the  adventure  was  gone. 

1 06 


KELLEY   AFOOT 

As  she  was  about  to  deliver  her  pony  to  Kelley  that 
night  he  handed  her  an  envelope,  and,  with  penetrating 
glance,  said:  "I  found  this  on  the  river  road  to-day.  I 
wouldn't  write  any  more  such — if  I  was  you ;  it  ain't 
nice  and  it  ain't  safe." 

It  was  her  own  letter,  the  one  she  had  but  just  written 
and  deposited  in  the  tree.  She  chilled  and  stiffened 
under  the  keen  edge  of  Kelley's  contemptuous  pity,  then 
burned  hot  with  illogical  rage. 

"What  right — ?    You  spied  on  me.     It's  a  shame!" 

"So  it  is!"  he  agreed,  quietly;  "but  I  don't  want  any 
killing  done — unless  I  do  it  myself." 

"You  are  a  thief,"  she  accused. 

"All  right,"  he  answered,  dispassionately.  "Spy — 
keeper — big  brother — dog — anything  goes — only  I  don't 
intend  to  let  you  slide  to  hell  without  a  protest.  You're 
nothing  but  a  kid — a  baby.  You  don't  know  what  you're 
going  into.  I'm  an  old  stager;  I  know  a  whole  lot  that  I 
wish  I  didn't  know.  I've  known  women  who  said  they 
didn't  care — lots  of  'em — but  they  did;  they  all  cared. 
They  all  knew  they'd  lost  out.  There's  only  one  end  to 
the  trail  you're  starting  in  on,  and  it  ain't  a  pretty  one. 
Harf  married  you  in  good  faith,  and  even  if  he  is  gettin' 
old  and  slow-footed  and  skinny,  he's  your  husband  and 
entitled  to  a  square  deal." 

Blinded  by  her  tears,  and  weak  with  passionate  resent 
ment  of  his  tone,  she  could  scarcely  clamber  down  from 
the  carriage.  As  soon  as  her  feet  touched  the  ground 
she  started  away.  Kelley  retained  her  by  the  force  of 
his  hand  upon  her  wrist. 

"Wait  a  moment,"  he  said,  huskily.  "You're  mad 
now  and  you  want  to  murder  me,  but  think  it  all  over 
and  you'll  see  I'm  your  friend." 

There  was  something  in  his  voice  which  caused  her 
107 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

to  look  squarely  up  into  his  face,  and  the  tenderness  she 
saw  there  remained  long  in  her  memory. 

"You're  too  sweet  and  lovely  to  be  the  sport  of  a 
cheap  skate  like  that.  Don't  throw  yourself  away  on 
any  man.  Good-by  and  God  bless  ye." 

She  walked  away  with  bent  head  and  tear-blinded 
eyes,  her  heart  filled  with  weakness  and  pain.  She  was 
like  a  child  justly  punished,  yet  resenting  it,  and  mingled 
with  her  resentment  was  a  growing  love  and  admiration 
for  the  man  whose  blunt  words  had  bruised  her  soul  in 
the  hope  of  her  redemption. 

Kelley  went  back  to  his  little  office,  gathered  his  small 
belongings  together,  and  called  up  Harford  on  the 
'phone.  "I'll  take  that  blue  cayuse  and  that  Denver- 
brand  saddle,  and  call  it  square  to  date.  .  .  .  Yes,  I'm 
leaving.  I've  got  a  call  to  a  ranche  over  on  the  Perco. 
Sorry,  but  I  reckon  I've  worked  out  my  sentence.  .  .  . 
All  right.  So  long." 

Ten  minutes  later  he  was  mounted  and  riding  out  of 
town.  The  air  was  crisp  with  autumn  frost  and  the 
stars  were  blazing  innumerably  in  the  sky.  A  coyote 
had  begun  his  evening  song,  and  to  the  north  rose  the 
high,  dark  mass  of  the  Book  cliffs.  Toward  this  wall 
he  directed  his  way.  He  hurried  like  one  fleeing  from 
temptation,  and  so  indeed  he  was. 


KELLEY   AS   MARSHAL 


A^ONG  about  '96  Sulphur  Springs  had  become  several 
kinds  of  a  bad  town.  From  being  a  small  liquor- 
ing-up  place  for  cattlemen  it  had  taken  on  successively 
the  character  of  a  land-office,  a  lumber-camp,  and  a  coal 
mine. 

As  a  cow  town  it  had  been  hardly  more  than  a  hamlet. 
As  a  mining  center  it  rose  to  the  dignity  of  possessing 
(as  Judge  Pulfoot  was  accustomed  to  boast)  nearly  two 
thousand  souls,  not  counting  Mexicans  and  Navajos. 
It  lay  in  the  hot  hollows  between  penon-spotted  hills, 
but  within  sight  spread  the  grassy  slopes  of  the  secondary 
mountains  over  whose  tops  the  snow-lined  peaks  of  the 
Continental  Divide  loomed  in  stern  majesty. 

The  herders  still  carried  Winchesters  on  their  saddles 
and  revolvers  strung  to  their  belts,  and  each  of  them 
strove  to  keep  up  cowboy  traditions  by  unloading  his 
weapon  on  the  slightest  provocation.  The  gamblers  also 
sustained  the  conventions  of  their  profession  by  killing 
one  another  now  and  again,  and  the  average  citizen 
regarded  these  activities  with  a  certain  approval,  for 
they  all  denoted  a  "live  town." 

"The  boys  need  diversion,"  said  the  mayor,  "and  so 
long  as  they  confine  their  celebrations  to  such  hours  as 

109 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

will  not  disturb  the  children  and  women — at  least,  the 
domestic  kind  of  women — I  won't  complain." 

And  really,  it  is  gratifying  to  record  that  very  few 
desirable  citizens  were  shot.  Sulphur  continued  to 
thrive,  to  glow  in  the  annals  of  mountain  chivalry,  until 
by  some  chance  old  Tom  Hornaby  of  Wire  Grass  was 
elected  Senator.  That  victory  marked  the  beginning  of 
the  decline  of  Sulphur. 

Hornaby  was  Pulfoot's  candidate,  and  the  judge  took 
a  paternal  pride  in  him.  He  even  went  up  to  the  capital 
to  see  him  sworn  in,  and  was  there,  unfortunately,  when 
the  humorous  member  from  Lode  alluded  to  Hornaby 
as  "my  esteemed  colleague  from  'Brimstone'  Center, 
where  even  the  judges  tote  guns  and  the  children 
chew  dynamite" — and  what  was  still  more  disturbing, 
he  was  again  in  the  capital  when  the  news  came  of 
the  shooting  and  robbing  of  a  couple  of  coal-miners, 
the  details  of  which  filled  the  city  papers  with  sar 
castic  allusions  to  "Tom  Hornaby 's  live  town  on  The 
Stinking  Water." 

Hornaby,  being  a  heavy  owner  of  land  in  and  about 
Sulphur,  was  very  properly  furious,  and  Judge  Pulfoot — 
deeply  grieved — was,  indeed,  on  the  instant,  converted. 
A  great  light  fell  about  him.  He  perceived  his  home 
town  as  it  was — or  at  least  he  got  a  glimpse  of  it  as  it 
appeared  to  the  timid  souls  of  civilized  men.  •  He  cow 
ered  before  Hornaby. 

"Tom,  you're  right,"  he  sadly  agreed.  "The  old 
town  needs  cleaning  up.  It  sure  is  disgraceful." 

Hornaby  buttered  no  parsnips.  "You  go  right  back," 
said  he,  "and  kick  out  that  bonehead  marshal  of  yours 
and  put  a  full-sized  man  into  his  place,  a  man  that  will 
cut  that  gun-play  out  and  distribute  a  few  of  those  plug- 
uglies,  over  the  landscape.  What  chance  have  I  got  in 

IIP 


KELLEY   AS    MARSHAL 

this  Legislature  as  the  'Senator  from  Brimstone  Cen 
ter'?  I'll  never  get  shet  of  that  fool  tag  whilst  I'm 
up  here." 

"You  certainly  have  a  right  to  be  sore,"  the  judge 
admitted.  "But  it  ain't  no  boy's  job,  cleaning  up  our 
little  burg.  It's  going  to  be  good,  stiff  work.  I  don't 
know  who  to  put  into  it." 

"I  do." 

"Who?" 

"My  foreman,  Ed  Kelley." 

"I  don't  know  him." 

"Well,  I  do.  He's  only  been  with  me  a  few  months, 
but  I've  tried  him  and  he's  all  right.  He's  been  all  over 
the  West,  knows  the  greasers  and  Injuns,  and  can  take 
care  of  himself  anywhere.  The  man  don't  live  that  can 
scare  him.  You  notice  his  eyes!  He's  got  a  glare  like 
the  muzzle  of  a  silver-plated  double-barrel  shotgun.  He 
don't  know  what  fear  is.  I've  seen  him  in  action,  and  I 
know." 

The  judge  was  impressed.  "Will  the  board  accept 
him?" 

"They've  got  to  accept  him  or  go  plumb  to  the  devil 
down  there.  These  articles  and  speeches  have  put  us 
in  wrong  with  the  whole  state.  This  wild  West  business 
has  got  to  be  cut  out.  It  scares  away  capital.  Now  you 
get  busy!" 

The  judge  went  back  resolved  upon  a  change  of  ad 
ministration.  The  constituent  who  held  the  office  of 
marshal  was  brave  enough,  but  he  had  grown  elderly 
and  inert.  He  was,  in  truth,  a  joke.  The  gamblers 
laughed  at  him  and  the  cowboys  "played  horse"  with 
him.  The  spirit  of  deviltry  was  stronger  than  it  had 
ever  been  in  the  history  of  the  county. 

"Something  religious  has  got  to  be  done,"  the  judge 
jn 


THEY   OF    THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

argued  to  the  city  fathers,  and,  having  presented  Hor- 
naby's  message,  demanded  the  installation  of  Kelley. 

The  board  listened  attentively,  but  were  unconvinced. 
"Who  is  this  Kelley?  He's  nothing  but  a  tramp,  a 
mounted  hobo.  Who  knows  him?" 

"Hornaby  knows  him  and  wants  him,  and  his  order 
goes.  Let's  have  him  in  and  talk  with  him,  any 
how." 

Kelley  was  called  in.  He  showed  up  a  tall,  composed 
young  fellow  of  thirty,  with  weather-worn  face  and 
steady  gray  eyes  in  which  the  pupils  were  unusually 
small  and  very  dark  blue.  His  expression  was  calm  and 
his  voice  pleasant.  He  listened  in  amused  silence  while 
the  judge  told  him  what  the  program  was.  Then  he 
said: 

"That's  a  whale  of  a  job  you've  laid  out  for  me;  but 
Hornaby's  boss.  All  is,  if  I  start  in  on  this,  you  fellows 
have  got  to  see  me  through.  It's  a  right  stiff  program 
and  I  need  some  insurance.  'Pears  to  me  like  there 
should  be  a  little  pot  for  Tall  Ed  at  the  end  of  this  game 
— say,  three  dollars  a  day  and  a  couple  of  hundred  bones 
when  everything  is  quiet." 

To  this  the  judge  agreed.  "You  go  in  and  clean  up. 
Run  these  gunmen  down  the  valley.  Cut  out  this 
amatoor  wild  West  business — it's  hurting  us.  Property 
is  depreciating  right  along.  We  certainly  can't  stand  any 
more  of  this  brimstone  business.  Go  to  it!  We'll  see 
that  you're  properly  reimbursed." 

"All  right,  Judge.  But  you  understand  if  I  go  into 
this  peacemaking  war  I  draw  no  political  lines.  I  am 
chief  for  the  time  being,  and  treat  everybody  alike — 
greasers,  'Paches,  your  friends,  my  friends,  everybody." 

"That's  all  right.  It's  your  deal,"  said  the  judge  and 
the  aldermen. 

112 


KELLEY   AS    MARSHAL 

ii 

Tall  Ed  had  drifted  into  Sulphur  from  the  Southwest 
some  six  months  before,  and  although  fairly  well  known 
among  the  ranchers  on  the  Wire  Grass,  was  not  a  familiar 
figure  in  town.  The  news  of  his  appointment  was  re 
ceived  with  laughter  by  the  loafers  and  with  wonder  by 
the  quiet  citizens,  who  coldly  said: 

"He  appears  like  a  full-sized  man,  but  size  don't 
count.  There's  Clayt  Mink,  for  instance,  the  worst 
little  moth-eaten  scrap  in  the  state,  and  yet  he'll  kill  at 
the  drop  of  a  hat.  Sooner  or  later  he's  going  to  try  out 
this  new  marshal  same  as  he  did  the  others." 

This  seemed  likely,  for  Mink  owned  and  operated  the 
biggest  gambling-house  in  Sulphur,  and  was  consid 
ered  to  be  (as  he  was)  a  dangerous  man.  He  already 
hated  Kelley,  who  had  once  protected  a  drunken  cat 
tleman  from  being  almost  openly  robbed  in  his  saloon. 
Furthermore,  he  was  a  relentless  political  foe  to 
Hornaby. 

He  was  indeed  a  mere  scrap  of  a  man,  with  nothing 
about  him  full-sized  except  his  mustache.  And  yet, 
despite  his  unheroic  physique,  he  was  quick  and  remorse 
less  in  action.  In  Italy  he  would  have  carried  a  dagger. 
In  England  he  would  have  been  a  light-weight  rough- 
and-tumble  fighter.  In  the  violent  West  he  was  a  gun 
man,  menacing  every  citizen  who  crossed  his  inclination, 
and  he  took  Kelley's  appointment  as  a  direct  affront  on 
the  part  of  Hornaby  and  Pulfoot. 

"He'd  better  keep  out  of  my  way,"  he  remarked  to 
his  friends,  with  a  malignant  sneer. 

Kelley  was  not  deceived  in  his  adversary.  "He's  a 
coward  at  heart,  like  all  these  hair-hung  triggers,"  he 
said  to  Pulfoot.  "I'm  not  hunting  any  trouble  with 


THEY   OF   THE   HIGH   TRAILS 

him,  but — "     It  was  not  necessary  to  finish  his  sentence; 
his  voice  and  smile  indicated  his  meaning. 

The  town  was  comparatively  quiet  for  the  first  month 
or  two  after  Kelley  took  office.  It  seemed  that  the  rough 
element  was  reflectively  taking  his  measure,  and 
Hornaby's  herders,  as  they  rode  in  and  out  of  town,  told 
stories  of  Tall  Ed's  rough  and  ready  experiences,  which 
helped  to  establish  official  confidence  in  him. 

"I  reckon  we've  done  the  right  thing  this  time," 
wrote  Pulfoot  to  Hornaby.  "The  boys  all  seem  to 
realize  we've  got  a  man  in  office." 

This  calm,  this  unnatural  calm,  was  broken  one  night 
by  Mink  himself,  who  shot  and  all  but  killed  the  livery- 
stable  keeper  in  a  dispute  over  roulette.  Knowing  that 
his  deed  would  bring  the  new  marshal  down  upon  him  at 
once,  the  gambler  immediately  declared  determined  war. 

"The  man  who  comes  after  me  will  need  a  wooden 
overcoat,"  he  promulgated.  "I  won't  stand  being 
hounded.  That  hostler  was  pulling  his  gun  on  me.  I 
got  him  first,  that's  all.  It  was  a  fair  fight,  and  every 
body  knows  it." 

The  liveryman  was,  in  fact,  armed  at  the  time,  and  the 
disposition  of  many  citizens  was  to  "let  him  learn  his 
lesson."  But  Judge  Pulfoot,  fearing  Hornaby's  temper, 
ordered  Kelley  to  get  his  man. 

"Tom  wants  that  weasel  disciplined,"  he  said.  " He's 
a  damage  to  the  community." 

Kelley  received  his  orders  with  calmness.  "Well, 
Judge,"  he  said,  after  a  little  pause,  "I'll  get  him,  but 
I'd  like  to  do  it  in  my  own  way.  To  go  after  him  just 
now  gives  him  the  inside  position.  He'll  hear  of  me  the 
minute  I  start  and  will  be  backed  up  into  the  corner 
somewhere  with  his  gun  all  poised." 

"Are  you  afraid?" 

114 


KELLEY   AS    MARSHAL 

"You  can  call  it  that,"  the  young  marshal  languidly 
replied.  "I  don't  believe  in  taking  fool  chances.  Mink 
is  a  dead  shot,  and  probably  wire-edged  with  whisky 
and  expecting  me.  My  plan  is  to  wait  until  he's  a  little 
off  his  guard — then  go  in  quick  and  pull  him  down." 

To  this  the  judge  gave  reluctant  consent.  But  when, 
a  few  hours  later,  he  heard  that  Mink  had  disappeared 
he  was  indignant.  "You  get  that  devil  or  we'll  let 
you  out,"  he  said,  and  showed  a  telegram  from  Hornaby 
protesting  against  this  new  outbreak  of  violence.  "The 
old  man's  red-headed  over  it." 

" I  know  it,"  said  Kelley.  "I  heard  from  him  to  that 
effect.  If  the  hostler  dies  we  won't  see  Mink  no  more. 
If  he's  in  town  I'll  get  him.  Good  night." 


in 

A  few  days  later,  as  he  was  walking  up  the  street,  half 
a  dozen  men  successively  spoke  to  him,  saying,  "Mink's 
at  home,  loaded — and  looking  for  you!"  And  each  of 
them  grinned  as  he  said  it,  joyously  anticipating  trouble. 

Without  a  word,  other  than  a  careless,  "That  so?" 
Kelley  passed  on,  and  a  thrill  of  excitement  ran  through 
the  hearts  of  the  loafers. 

It  was  about  sunset  of  a  dusty  autumn  afternoon,  and 
the  cowboys  and  miners  (gathered  in  knots  along  the 
street),  having  eaten  their  suppers,  were  ready  to  be 
entertained.  Upon  seeing  Kelley  approach  with  easy 
stride  they  passed  the  joyous  word  along.  Each  spec 
tator  was  afraid  he  might  miss  some  part  of  the  play. 

Kelley  was  fully  aware  that  his  official  career  and  per 
haps  his  life  hung  in  the  balance.  To  fail  of  arresting  the 
desperado  was  to  brand  himself  a  bungler  and  to  expose 
himself  to  the  contempt  of  other  sure-shot  ruffians. 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

However,  having  faced  death  many  times  in  the  desert 
and  on  the  range,  he  advanced  steadily,  apparently  un 
disturbed  by  the  warnings  he  had  received. 

Just  before  reaching  Mink's  saloon  he  stepped  into 
Lemont's  drug-store,  a  cheap  little  shop  where  candy 
and  cigars  and  other  miscellaneous  goods  were  sold. 
The  only  person  in  the  place  was  Rosa  Lemont,  a  slim, 
little  maid  of  about  fifteen  years  of  age. 

"Hello,  Rosie,"  he  said,  quietly.  "I  want  to  slip 
out  your  back  door."  He  smiled  meaningly.  "The 
street  is  a  trifle  crowded  just  now." 

With  instant  comprehension  of  his  meaning  she  led 
the  way.  "Don't  let  them  kill  you,"  she  whispered, 
with  scared  lips. 

"I'll  try  not  to,"  he  answered,  lightly. 

Once  in  the  alley,  he  swung  his  revolver  to  a  handy 
spot  on  his  thigh  and  entered  the  saloon  abruptly  from 
the  rear. 

The  back  room,  a  rude  dance-hall,  was  empty,  but 
the  door  into  the  barroom  was  open,  and  he  slipped 
through  it  like  a  shadow.  Mink  was  not  in  sight,  but 
the  barkeeper  stood  rigidly  on  duty. 

"Hello,  Jack!"  called  Kelley,  as  he  casually  ap 
proached  the  bar.  "Where's  the  boss?" 

Before  he  had  finished  his  question  he  detected  his 
man  reflected  in  the  mirror  behind  the  bar.  The 
gambler  imagined  himself  to  be  hidden  behind  the  screen 
which  separated  the  women's  drinking-place  from  the 
main  room,  and  did  not  know  that  Kelley  had  seen  him 
in  the  glass.  His  revolver  was  in  his  hand  and  malig 
nant  purpose  blazed  in  his  eyes — and  yet  he  hesitated. 
Lawless  as  he  was,  it  appeared  that  he  could  not  in 
stantly  bring  himself  to  the  point  of  shooting  an  officer 
in  the  back. 

116 


KELLEY   AS    MARSHAL 

Kelley,  realizing  his  disadvantage,  and  knowing  that 
any  attempt  to  forestall  the  action  of  his  enemy  would 
be  fatal,  cheerily  called  out  to  an  acquaintance  who 
stood  in  a  stupor  of  fear,  farther  up  the  bar:  "Howdy, 
Sam!  Come  and  have  a  drink."  His  jovial  tone  and 
apparent  ignorance  of  danger  prolonged  Mink's  moment 
of  indecision.  The  third  man  thought  Kelley  unaware 
of  his  danger,  but  did  not  have  the  courage  to  utter  a 
sound. 

The  marshal,  perceiving  certain  death  in  the  assassin's 
eyes,  was  about  to  whirl  in  a  desperate  effort  to  get  at 
least  one  shot  at  him,  when  something  happened! 
Some  one  caromed  against  the  screen.  It  toppled  and 
fell  upon  the  gambler,  disconcerting  his  aim.  His  bullet 
went  wide,  and  Kelley  was  upon  him  like  a  tiger  before 
he  could  recover  control  of  his  weapon,  and  they  both 
went  to  the  sawdust  together. 

Now  came  a  singular  revelation  of  the  essential 
cowardice  of  the  desperado.  Deprived  of  his  revolver 
and  helpless  in  Kellcy's  great  hands,  he  broke  down. 
White,  trembling,  drooling  with  terror,  he  pleaded  for 
his  life.  "Don't  shoot — don't  kill  me!"  he  repeated 
over  and  over. 

"I  ought  to  kill  you,"  argued  Kelley,  with  a  reflective 
hesitation  which  wrought  his  captive  to  a  still  greater 
frenzy  of  appeal. 

"I  beg— I  beg,"  he  whined.     "Don't  shoot!" 

Amazed  and  disgusted  with  the  man's  weakness,  Kelley 
kicked  him  in  the  ribs.  "Get  up!"  he  said,  shortly. 

Mink  arose,  but  no  sooner  was  he  on  his  feet  than  his 
courage  returned.  "I'll  have  your  heart  for  this,"  he 
said,  venomously.  Then  his  mind  took  a  sudden  turn. 
"Who  pushed  that  screen  onto  me?"  he  asked.  "I'll  kill 
the  man  who  did  that." 

117 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

"You'll  have  time  to  figure  out  that  problem  in  the 
quiet  of  'the  jug,'"  said  Kelley.  "Come  along." 

At  the  door  of  the  calaboose  the  gambler  braced  him 
self.  "I  won't  go  in  there!"  he  declared.  "I  won't  be 
jugged — I'll  die  right  here — " 

Kelley's  answer  was  a  jerk,  a  twist,  and  a  sudden 
thrust,  which  landed  the  redoubtable  boaster  in  the 
middle  of  his  cell.  "You  can  die  inside  if  you  want  to," 
he  said,  and  turned  the  key  on  him.  "My  responsi 
bility  ends  right  here." 


IV 

The  street  was  crowded  with  excited  men  and  women 
as  Kelley  came  back  up  the  walk.  One  or  two  con 
gratulated  him  on  his  escape  from  sudden  death,  but  the 
majority  resented  him  as  "the  hired  bouncer"  of  the 
land-boomers  in  the  town. 

"Who  pushed  that  screen?"  was  the  question  which 
everybody  asked  of  Kelley. 

" I  didn't  see,"  he  responded.  "I  was  busy  just  about 
that  time." 

In  truth  he  had  only  glimpsed  a  darting  figure,  but 
one  he  knew!  Who  else  but  Rosa  Lemont  could  have 
been  so  opportune  and  so  effective  in  her  action?  She 
alone  knew  of  his  presence  in  the  alley. 

She  was  only  a  plain  little  hobbledehoy,  half  Mexican 
and  half  French,  and  not  yet  out  of  short  dresses,  and 
Kelley  had  never  paid  her  any  attention  beyond  passing 
the  time  of  day,  with  a  kindly  smile;  and  yet  with  the 
fervid  imagination  of  her  race  she  had  already  conceived 
a  passionate  admiration  for  Kelley.  Knowing  that  he 
was  entering  Mink's  death-trap,  she  had  followed  him 
like  a  faithful  squire,  eager  to  defend,  and,  understand- 

118 


KELLEY   AS    MARSHAL 

ing  his  danger  to  the  full,  had  taken  the  simplest  and 
most  effective  means  of  aiding  him.  From  the  doorway 
she  had  witnessed  his  victory;  then  flying  through  the 
rear  door,  had  been  in  position  at  the  store  window  as 
he  passed  with  his  prisoner  on  his  way  to  the  calaboose. 

When  Kelley  came  back  to  her  door,  with  intent  to 
thank  her  for  what  she  had  done,  he  found  the  room 
full  of  excited  men,  and  with  instinctive  delicacy  passed 
on  his  way,  not  wishing  to  involve  her  in  the  story  of  the 
arrest. 

It  appeared  that  all  the  men  of  the  town  who  thrived 
by  lawlessness  and  vice  now  decided  to  take  up  Mink's 
case  and  make  his  discharge  an  issue.  A  sudden  demon 
stration  of  their  political  power  brought  the  judge  to 
terms.  He  weakened.  The  gambler  was  released  with 
a  fine  of  one  hundred  dollars  and  a  warning  to  keep  the 
peace,  and  by  noon  of  the  following  day  was  back  in 
his  den,  more  truculent  than  ever. 

Kelley  was  properly  indignant.  "But  the  man  tried 
to  kill  me!"  he  protested  to  the  court. 

"He  swears  not,"  replied  the  justice.  "We  have 
punished  him  for  resisting  an  officer.  That  is  the  best 
we  can  do." 

"What  about  Jake?" 

"Oh,  well!  That  was  'war.'  Jake  had  a  gun,  and 
Mink  is  able  to  prove  that  he  shot  in  self-defense. 
Furthermore,  he  has  settled  with  Jake." 

Kelley  argued  no  more.  He  could  have  called  Rosa 
in  as  a  witness  to  the  attempt  upon  his  life,  but  to  do  so 
would  expose  her  to  public  comment,  and  her  big, 
solemn,  worshipful  eyes  had  already  produced  in  him 
a  vague  pity.  Without  understanding  fully  her  feeling, 
he  knew  that  she  looked  up  to  him,  and  he  perceived 
that  she  was  born  to  sorrow  in  larger  measure  than  she 
9  "9 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

deserved.  Sallow,  thin,  boyish,  she  gave  promise  of  a 
kind  of  beauty  which  would  sometime  make  her  desired 
of  both  white  men  and  brown. 

"Poor  little  mongrel!"  he  said  to  himself.  "She's  in 
for  misery  enough  without  worrying  over  me." 

"Well,  I'm  up  against  it  now,"  Kellcy  remarked  to 
Dad  Miller,  Hornaby's  foreman,  the  next  time  lie  met 
him.  "Mink's  friends  have  thrown  a  scare  into  the 
judge  and  he  has  turned  that  coyote  loose  arainst  me. 
Looks  like  I  had  one  of  two  things  to  do — kill  the  cuss 
or  jump  the  town." 

"Shoot  him  on  sight,"  advised  Miller. 

"If  I  do  that  I'm  'in  bad'  with  the  court,"  .Kelley 
argued.  "You  see,  when  I  took  him  before,  I  had  the 
law  on  my  side.  Now  it's  just  man  to  man — until  he 
commits  another  crime.  Killing  me  wouldn't  be  a 
crime." 

"That's  so,"  mused  his  friend.  "You're  cinched  any 
way  you  look  at  it." 

Kelley  went  on:  "Moreover,  some  of  my  greaser 
friends  have  started  a  line  of  fool  talk  about  making  me 
sheriff,  and  that  has  just  naturally  set  the  whole  political 
ring  against  me.  They'd  just  as  soon  I  got  killed 
as  not — a  little  sooner.  I've  a  right  to  resign,  haven't 
I?  Nobody  has  a  license  to  call  me  a  coward  after 
what  I've  done,  have  they?" 

"No  license;  but  I  reckon  they  will,  all  the  scrne," 
responded  his  friend. 

Kelley's  face  hardened.  "Well,  I'll  disappoint  'cm. 
I'm  going  to  stay  with  it."  However,  he  went  to  the 
mayor  and  voiced  his  resentment  of  the  court's  action. 

His  Honor  pretended  to  be  greatly  concerned.  .  "Now, 
don't  quit  on  us,  Ed.  Hornaby  expects  you  to  stay  put. 

120 


KELLEY   AS    MARSHAL 

You're  the  only  man  who  can  clean  up  the  town.  You've 
done  great  work  already,  and  we  appreciate  it.  In  fact, 
we're  going  to  raise  your  pay." 

"Pay  to  a  corpse  don't  count,"  retorted  Kelley.  " It's 
a  question  of  backing.  You  fellows  have  got  to  stand 
behind  rne." 

"We'll  do  it,  Ed.  Only,  Hornaby  thinks  you'd  better 
put  a  card  in  the  paper  saying  that  you  have  no  inten 
tion  of  going  into  politics." 

"Oh,  hell!"  said  Kelley,  disgustedly.  "Is  Hornaby 
suspicious  of  me,  too?  Well,  for  that  I've  a  mind  to 
run,"  and  he  went  out  in  deep  disgust. 

As  the  days  went  by  and  no  open  movement  against 
him  took  place,  his  vigilance  somewhat  relaxed.  Mink 
kept  to  his  lair  like  some  treacherous,  bloodthirsty 
animal,  which  was  a  bad  sign. 

At  heart  Tall  Ed  was  restless  and  discontented.  Each 
day  he  walked  the  streets  of  the  fly-bit  town;  dreaming 
of  the  glorious  desert  spaces  he  had  crossed  and  of  the 
high  trails  he  had  explored.  He  became  more  and  more 
homesick  for  the  hills.  Far  away  to  the  north  gleamed 
the  snowy  crest  of  the  Continental  Divide,  and  the 
desire  to  ride  on,  over  that  majestic  barrier  into  valleys 
whose  purple  shadows  allured  him  like  banners,  grew 
stronger.  Each  night  he  lifted  his  face  to  the  stars 
and  thought  of  his  glorious  moonlit  camps  on  the  Rio 
Perco  sands,  and  the  sound  of  waterfalls  was  in  his 
dreams. 

"What  am  I  here  for?"  he  asked  himself.  "Why 
should  I  be  watch-dog — me,  a  wolf,  a  free  ranger !  Why 
should  I  be  upholding  the  law?  What's  the  law  to  a 
tramp?" 

Had  it  not  been  for  a  curious  sense  of  loyalty  to 
Hornaby,  added  to  a  natural  dislike  of  being  called  a 

121 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

quitter,  he  would  have  surrendered  his  star  and  re 
sumed  his  saddle.  He  owned  a  good  horse  once  more 
and  had  earned  nearly  two  hundred  dollars.  "  With  my 
present  outfit  I  can  amble  clear  across  to  Oregon,"  he 
assured  himself,  wistfully. 

As  he  stood  with  uplifted  face,  dreaming  of  the  moun 
tains,  Rosa  Lemont  came  down  the  street,  and  as  she 
passed  him  said  in  a  low  voice:  "Mink's  on  the  plaza 
— crazy  drunk.  Watch  out!" 

Kelley  straightened  and  cast  an  unhurried  glance 
around  him.  No  one  was  in  sight  but  a  group  of  cow- 
punchers  tying  their  horses  in  front  of  a  saloon,  and  a 
few  miners  seated  on  the  edge  of  the  walk.  Neverthe 
less,  he  knew  the  girl  had  good  reason  for  her  warning, 
and  so,  after  walking  a  block  or  two  in  the  opposite  di 
rection,  he  turned  and  came  slowly  back  up  the  main 
street  till  he  reached  Lemont's  doorway,  where  he 
paused,  apparently  interested  in  something  across  the 
street. 

Rosa  came  from  within  and  with  equally  well-simu 
lated  carelessness  leaned  against  the  door-frame.  "  Mink's 
bug-house,"  she  explained,  "and  got  a  Winchester.  He's 
just  around  the  corner,  waiting  for  you.  He  says  he's 
going  to  shoot  you  on  sight."  She  stammered  a  little 
with  excitement,  but  her  voice  was  low. 

"  Much  obliged,  Rosie,"  he  replied,  feelingly.  "  Don't 
worry.  I  may  see  him  first.  And  listen;  while  I  have  a 
chance  I  want  to  thank  you  for  pushing  that  screen  onto 
him.  It  was  a  good  job." 

"That's  all  right,"  she  answered,  hastily.  " But  please 
be  careful." 

"Don't  worry,"  he  gravely  replied.  ."I've  beat  him 
once  and  I  can  do  it  again."  And  after  a  pause  he 
added:  "I  reckon  you're  the  only  one  that  cares  what 

122 


KELLEY   AS    MARSHAL 

happens  to  me — but  don't  mix  in  this  game,  little  one. 
Don't  do  it." 

A  crowd  had  gathered  in  the  street,  with  attention 
concentrated  as  if  for  a  dog-fight,  and  Kelley,  pushing 
his  way  through  the  circle,  suddenly  confronted  Mink, 
who,  as  the  object  of  interest,  was  busied  in  rolling  a 
cigarette,  while  his  Winchester  leaned  against  a  post. 
To  this  fact  Kelley  probably  owed  his  life,  for  in  the 
instant  between  the  gambler's  recognition  and  the  snatch 
ing  up  of  his  rifle  Kelley  was  able  to  catch  and  depress  the 
muzzle  of  the  gun  before  it  was  discharged.  The  bullet 
passed  low,  entering  the  wooden  sidewalk  close  to  his  foot. 
"  I'll  take  that  gun,"  he  said,  and  would  have  immediate 
ly  overpowered  his  adversary  had  not  several  of  the  by 
standers  furiously  closed  in  upon  him.  Single-handed  he 
was  forced  to  defend  himself  against  these,  his  fellow- 
citizens,  as  well  as  against  Mink,  who  struggled  like  a 
wildcat  for  the  possession  of  his  gun.  One  man  seized 
the  marshal  from  behind,  pinioning  his  arms.  Another 
hung  upon  his  neck.  A  third  dogged  at  his  knees,  a 
fourth  disarmed  him. 

Battered,  bruised,  covered  with  blood  and  dirt,  the 
marshal  fought  like  a  panther  weighed  down  with  hounds. 
Twice  he  went  to  earth  smothered,  blinded,  gasping,  but 
rose  again  almost  miraculously,  still  unconquered,  until 
at  last,  through  the  sudden  weakening  of  the  men  on  his 
right  arm  he  gained  possession  of  the  rifle,  and  with  one 
furious  sweep  brought  it  down  on  the  gambler's  head. 
Another  circling  stroke  and  his  assailants  fell  away. 
With  blazing  eyes  he  called  out:  "Get  back  there  now! 
Every  man  of  you!" 

Breathing  hard,  he  looked  them  over  one  by  one. 
"You're  a  pretty  bunch  of  citizens,"  he  said,  with  cut 
ting  contempt.  ' '  You  ought  to  be  shot — every  man  jack 

123 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

of  you!"  Then  glancing  down  at  the  wounded  gambler 
at  his  feet,  he  added :  "Some  of  you  better  take  this  whelp 
to  a  doctor.  He  needs  help." 

Lemont  and  another  of  Mink's  friends  took  up  the 
unconscious  man  and  carried  him  into  the  drug-store, 
and  Kelley  followed,  with  a  feeling  that  all  the  town 
was  against  him,  and  that  he  must  re-arm  himself  for  a 
night  of  warfare.  His  revolver  was  gone,  and  to  replace 
it  and  to  gain  a  breathing-space  he  retreated  to  his 
room,  his  endurance  all  but  exhausted. 

He  had  no  regret  for  what  he  had  done.  On  the  con 
trary,  he  took  a  savage  satisfaction  in  having  at  last 
ended  Mink,  but  as  he  hurriedly  buckled  on  his  cartridge- 
belt,  he  foresaw  the  danger  ahead  of  him  in  Mink's 
friends,  who,  he  knew,  would  get  him  if  they  could. 

The  patter  of  feet  in  the  hall  and  a  knock  at  the  door 
startled  him.  "Who's  there?"  he  demanded,  catching 
up  his  rifle. 

"It's  Rosa,"  called  a  girlish  voice.     "Let  me  in." 

"Are  you  alone?" 

"Yes.     Open!     Quick!" 

He  opened  the  door,  gun  in  hand.  "What  is  it, 
Rosie?"  he  gently  asked. 

"They're  coming!"  she  answered,  breathlessly. 

"Who're  coming?" 

"That  saloon  crowd.     They're  almost  here!" 

Other  footsteps  sounded  on  the  stairs.  "Run  away, 
girl, ' '  said  Kelley,  softly.  ' '  There's  going  to  be  trouble — " 

Rosie  pushed  him  back  into  the  room.  "No,  no! 
Let  me  stay!  Let  me  help  you  fight!"  she  pleaded. 

While  still  he  hesitated,  Mrs.  Mink,  a  short,  squat 
woman  with  eyes  aflame  with  hate,  rushed  through  the 
doorway  and  thrust  a  rifle  against  Kelley's  breast. 
Quick  as  a  boxer  Rosa  pushed  the  weapon  from  the 

124 


KELLEY   AS    MARSHAL 

woman's  hands  and  with  desperate  energy  shoved  her 
backward  through  the  door  and  closed  it. 

"Run — run!"  she  called  to  the  marshal. 

But  Kelley  did  not  move,  and  something  in  his  face 
turned  the  girl's  face  white.  He  was  standing  like  a  man 
hypnotized,  every  muscle  rigid.  With  fallen  jaw  and 
staring  eyes  he  looked  at  the  weapon  in  his  hand.  At 
last  he  spoke  huskily: 

"Girl,  you've  saved  my  soul  from  hell.  You  surely 
have!"  He  shivered  as  if  with  cold,  rubbing  his  hands 
stiffly.  "Yes,"  he  muttered,  "a  second  more  and  I'd  'a' 
killed  her — killed  a  woman!" 

The  sound  of  a  fierce  altercation  came  up  the  hall. 
Cautious  footsteps  were  heard  approaching,  and  at  last 
a  voice  called  out,  "Hello,  Kelley!  You  there?" 

"I  am.     What's  wanted  of  me?" 

"It's  the  mayor.     Let  me  speak  with  you  a  minute." 

Kelley  considered  for  a  breath  or  two;  his  brain  was 
sluggish.  "Open  the  door,  Rosie,"  he  finally  said  and 
backed  against  the  wall. 

The  girl  obeyed,  and  the  mayor  entered,  but  his  hands 
were  open  and  raised.  ' '  Don't  shoot,  Ed.  We're  friends. ' ' 
He  was  followed  by  the  judge  and  a  couple  of  aldermen. 

"It's  all  right,  Ed,"  said  the  judge.  "Mink's  coming 
to  life.  Put  up  your  gun.  We  don't  blame  you.  He 
had  no  call  to  attack  an  officer  like  that — 

At  the  word  "officer"  Kelley  let  his  rifle  slip  with  a 
slam  to  the  floor  and  began  to  fumble  at  the  badge  on 
his  coat.  "That  reminds  me,  your  Honor,"  he  said,  at 
last.  "Here's  a  little  piece  of  tin  that  belongs  to  you — 
or  the  city." 

He  tossed  the  loosened  badge  to  the  mayor,  who 
caught  it  deftly,  protesting:  "Oh,  don't  quit,  Ed. 
You've  just  about  won  the  fight.  Stay  with  it." 

125 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

A  wry  smile  wrinkled  one  side  of  the  trailer's  set  face. 
"I'm  no  fool,  your  Honor.  I  know  when  I've  got 
enough.  I  don't  mind  being  shot  in  the  back  and 
mobbed  and  wallered  in  the  dirt — that's  all  in  the  day's 
work;  but  when  it  conies  to  having  women  pop  in  on 
me  with  Winchesters  I  must  be  excused.  I'm  leaving 
for  the  range.  I'll  enjoy  being  neighbor  to  the  conies 
for  a  while.  This  civilized  life  is  a  little  too  busy  for 
me." 

Rosa,  who  had  been  listening,  understood  his  mood 
much  better  than  the  men,  and  with  her  small  hands 
upon  his  arm  she  pleaded:  "Take  me  with  you!  I  hate 
these  people — I  want  to  go  with  you." 

He  turned  a  tender,  pitying,  almost  paternal  glance 
upon  her.  "No,  girl,  no.  I  can't  do  that.  You're  too 
young.  It  wouldn't  be  right  to  snarl  a  grown  woman's 
life  up  with  mine — much  less  a  child  like  you."  Then, 
as  if  to  soften  the  effect  of  his  irrevocable  decision,  he 
added:  "Perhaps  some  time  we'll  meet  again.  But 
it's  good-by  now."  He  put  his  arm  about  her  and  drew 
her  to  his  side  and  patted  her  shoulder  as  if  she  were 
a  lad.  Then  he  turned.  "Lend  me  a  dollar,  Judge! 
I'm  anxious  to  ride." 

The  judge  looked  troubled.  "We're  sorry,  Ed — but 
if  you  feel  that  way,  why — " 

"That's  the  way  I  feel,"  answered  the  trailer,  and  his 
tone  was  conclusive. 

Dusk  was  falling  when,  mounted  on  his  horse,  with 
his  "stake"  in  his  pocket,  Kelley  rode  out  of  the  stable 
into  the  street  swarming  with  excited  men.  The  op 
position  had  regained  its  courage.  Yells  of  vengeance 
rose:  "Lynch  him!  Lynch  the  dog!"  was  the  cry. 

Reining  his  bronco  into  the  middle  of  the  road,  with 
126 


KELLEY   AS    MARSHAL 

rifle  across  the  pommel  of  his  saddle,  Kelley  advanced 
upon  the  crowd,  in  the  shadowy  fringes  of  which  he  could 
see  ropes  swinging  in  the  hands  of  Mink's  drunken 
partisans. 

"Come  on,  you  devils!"  he  called.  "Throw  a  rope  if 
you  dare." 

Awed  by  the  sheer  bravery  of  the  challenge,  the 
crowd  slowly  gave  way  before  him. 

The  block  seemed  a  mile  long  to  Kelley,  but  he  rode 
it  at  a  walk,  his  horse  finding  his  own  way,  until  at  last 
he  reached  the  bridge  which  led  to  the  high-line  Red 
Mountain  road.  Here  he  paused,  faced  about,  and 
sheathed  his  Winchester,  then  with  a  wave  of  his  hand 
toward  Rosa  Lemont,  who  had  followed  him  thus  far, 
he  called  out: 

"Good-by,  girl!  You're  the  only  thing  worth  saving 
in  the  whole  dern  town.  Adios!" 

And,  defeated  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  Tall  Ed 
turned  his  cayuse's  head  to  the  San  McGill  range, 
with  only  the  memory  of  a  worshipful  child-woman's 
face  to  soften  the  effect  of  his  hard  experience  as  the 
Marshal  of  Brimstone  Basin. 


PARTNERS   FOR   A   DAY 


A^INNEBAR  was  filled  with  those  who  took  chances. 
v^  The  tenderfoot  staked  his  claim  on  the  chance  of 
selling  it  again.  The  prospector  toiled  in  his  overland 
tunnel  on  the  chance  of  cracking  the  apex  of  a  vein. 
The  small  companies  sank  shafts  on  the  chance  of 
touching  pay  ore,  the  big  companies  tunneled  deep  and 
drifted  wide  in  the  hope  of  cutting  several  veins.  The 
merchants  built  in  the  belief  that  the  camp  was  a  per 
manent  town,  and  the  gamblers  took  chances  of  losing 
money  if  their  game  was  honest,  and  put  their  lives  at 
hazard  if  they  cheated. 

Only  the  saloon-keepers  took  no  chances  whatever. 
They  played  the  safe  game.  They  rejoiced  in  a  cer 
tainty,  for  if  the  miners  had  good  luck  they  drank  to 
celebrate  it,  and  if  they  had  bad  luck  they  drank  to 
forget  it — and  so  the  liquor-dealers  prospered. 

Tall  Ed  Kelley,  on  his  long  trip  across  "the  big  flat," 
as  he  called  the  valley  between  the  Continental  Divide 
and  the  Cascade  Range,  stopped  at  Cinnebar  to  see  what 
was  going  on.  In  less  than  three  days  he  sold  his  horse 
and  saddle  and  took  a  chance  on  a  leased  mine.  At  the 
end  of  a  year  he  was  half  owner  in  a  tunnel  that  was 
yielding  a  fair  grade  of  ore  and  promised  to  pay,  but  he 
was  not  content.  A  year  in  one  place  was  a  long  time 
for  him,  and  he  was  already  meditating  a  sale  of  his 

128 


PARTNERS    FOR   A    DAY 

interest  in  order  that  he  might  take  up  the  line  of  his 
march  toward  the  Northwest,  when  a  curious  experience 
came  to  him. 

One  night  as  he  drifted  into  the  Palace  saloon  he  felt 
impelled  to  take  a  chance  with  "the  white  marble." 
That  is  to  say,  he  sat  in  at  the  roulette-table  and  began 
to  play  small  stakes. 

The  man  who  rolled  the  marble  was  young  and  good- 
looking.  Kelley  had  seen  him  before  and  liked  him. 
Perhaps  this  was  the  reason  he  played  roulette  instead 
of  faro.  At  any  rate,  he  played,  losing  steadily  at  first — 
then,  suddenly,  the  ball  began  to  fall  his  way,  and 
before  the  clock  pointed  to  ten  he  had  several  hundred 
dollars  in  winnings. 

"This  is  my  night,"  he  said,  on  meeting  the  eyes  of 
the  young  dealer. 

"Don't  crowd  a  winning  horse,"  retorted  the  man 
at  the  wheel;  and  Kelley  caught  something  in  his  look 
which  checked  his  play  and  led  him  to  quit  the  game. 
In  that  glance  the  gambler  had  conveyed  a  friendly  warn 
ing,' although  he  said,  as  Kelley  was  going  away:  "Be  a 
sport.  Give  the  wheel  another  show.  See  me  to-morrow." 

Kelley  went  away  with  a  distinct  feeling  of  friendli 
ness  toward  the  youngster,  whose  appearance  was  quite 
unlike  the  ordinary  gambler.  He  seemed  not  merely 
bored,  but  disgusted  with  his  trade,  and  Kelley  said  to 
himself:  "That  lad  has  a  story  to  tell.  He's  no  ordi 
nary  robber." 

The  next  afternoon  he  met  the  youth  on  the  street. 
"Much  obliged  for  your  tip  last  night.  The  game 
looked  all  right  to  me." 

"It  was  all  right,"  replied  the  gambler.  "I  didn't 
mean  that  it  was  crooked.  But  I  hate  to  see  a  good 
man  lose  his  money  as  you  were  sure  to  do." 

129 


THEY   OF   THE   HIGH   TRAILS 

"I  thought  you  meant  the  wheel  was  'fixed,'" 

"Oh  no.  It's  straight.  I  call  a  fair  game.  But  I 
knew  your  run  of  luck  couldn't  last  and" — he  hesitated 
a  little — "I'd  kinda  taken  a  fancy  to  you." 

"Well,  that's  funny,  too,"  replied  Kelley.  "I  went 
over  to  play  your  machine  because  I  kind  of  cottoned 
to  you.  I  reckon  we're  due  to  be  friends.  My  name's 
Kelley— Tall  Ed  the  boys  call  me." 

"Mine  is  Morse — Fred  Morse.  I  came  out  here  with 
a  grubstake,  lost  it,  and,  being  out  of  a  job,  fell  into  roll 
ing  the  marble  for  a  living.  What  are  you — a  miner?" 

"I  make  a  bluff  at  mining  a  leased  claim  up  here, 
but  I'll  admit  I'm  nothing  but  a  wandering  cow-puncher 
— a  kind  of  mounted  hobo.  I  have  an  itch  to  keep 
moving.  I've  been  here  a  year  and  I'm  crazy  to  straddle 
a  horse  and  ride  off  into  the  West.  I  know  the  South 
and  East  pretty  well — so  the  open  country  for  me  is  off 
there  where  the  sun  goes  down."  His  voice  had  a  touch 
of  poetry  in  it,  and  the  other  man,  though  he  felt  the 
bigness  of  the  view,  said: 

"I  never  was  on  a  horse  in  my  life,  and  I  don't  like 
roughing  it.  But  I  like  you  and  I  wish  you'd  let  me 
see  something  of  you.  Where  are  you  living?" 

"Mostly  up  at  my  mine — but  I  have  a  room  down 
here  at  the  Boston  House.  I  pick  up  my  meals  any 
where." 

The  young  man's  voice  grew  hesitant.  "Would  you 
consider  taking  me  in  as  a  side  partner?  I'm  lonesome 
where  I  am." 

Kelley  was  touched  by  the  gambler's  tone.  "No 
harm  trying,"  he  said,  with  a  smile.  "We  couldn't  do 
more  than  kill  each  other.  But  I  warn  you  I'm  likely 
any  day  to  buy  an  old  cayuse  and  pull  out.  I'm  sub 
ject  to  fits  like  that." 

130 


PARTNERS    FOR   A   DAY 

"All  right — I'll  take  the  chance.  I'm  used  to  taking 
chances." 

Kelley  laughed.     "So  am  I." 

In  this  informal  way  they  formed  a  social  partnership, 
and  the  liking  they  mutually  acknowledged  deepened 
soon  into  a  friendship  that  was  close  akin  to  fraternal 
love. 

Within  a  week  each  knew  pretty  accurately  the  origin 
and  history  of  the  other,  and  although  they  had  but  an 
hour  or  two  of  an  afternoon  for  talk,  they  grew  to  de 
pend  upon  each  other,  strangely,  and  when  one  day  Morse 
came  into  the  room  in  unwonted  excitement  and  said, 
"Ed,  I  want  you  to  do  something  for  me,"  Kelley  in 
stantly  replied:  "All  right,  boy.  Spit  it  out.  What's 
wanted?" 

"I'm  in  a  devil  of  a  hole.  My  mother  and  my  little 
sister  are  coming  through  here  on  their  way  to  the 
Coast.  They're  going  to  stop  off  to  see  me.  I  want 
you  to  let  me  in  on  a  partnership  in  your  mine  just 
for  a  day.  They'll  only  stay  a  few  hours,  but  I  want 
to  have  them  think  I'm  making  my  living  in  a  mine. 
You  get  me?" 

"Sure  thing,  Fred.    When  are  they  due?" 

"To-morrow." 

"All  right.  You  get  a  lay-off  from  your  boss  and 
we'll  pull  the  deal  through.  I'll  tell  my  old  partner 
I've  taken  you  in  on  my  share  and  he'll  carry  out  his 
part  of  it.  He's  a  good  deal  of  a  bonehead,  but  no 
talker.  But  you'll  have  to  put  on  some  miner's  duds 
and  spend  to-day  riding  around  the  hills  to  get  a  little 
sunburn.  You  don't  look  like  a  miner." 

"I  know  it.     That  worries  me,  too." 

Having  given  his  promise,  Kelley  seemed  eager  to 
carry  the  plan  through  successfully.  He  was  sorry 

131 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

for  the  youth,  but  he  was  sorrier  for  the  mother  who 
was  coming  with  such  fond  pride  in  the  success  of  her 
son — for  Morse  confessed  that  he  had  been  writing  of 
his  "mine"  for  a  year. 

He  outfitted  his  new  partner  with  a  pair  of  well-worn 
miner's  boots  and  some  trousers  that  were  stained  with 
clay,  and  laughed  when  Fred  found  them  several  inches 
too  long. 

"You've  got  to  wear  'em.  No!  New  ones  won't 
work.  How  would  it  do  for  you  to  be  so  durn  busy 
at  the  mine  that  I  had  to  come  down  and  bring  your 
people  up?" 

1  'Good  idea!"  Then  his  face  became  blank.  "What 
would  I  be  busy  about?" 

"That's  so!"  grinned  Kelley.  "Well,  let's  call  it 
your  day  off  and  /'//  be  busy." 

"No,  I  want  you  to  come  with  me  to  the  train.  I 
need  you.  You  must  do  most  of  the  talking — about  the 
mine,  I  mean.  I'll  say  you're  the  practical  miner  and 
I'll  refer  all  questions  about  the  business  to  you.  And 
we  must  keep  out  of  the  main  street.  I  don't  want 
mother  to  even  pass  the  place  I've  been  operating  in.'* 

"What  if  they  decide  to  stay  all  night?" 

"They  won't.  They're  going  right  on.  They  won't 
be  here  more  than  five  or  six  hours." 

"All  right.  We'll  find  'em  dinner  up  at  Mrs.  Finne- 
gan's.  If  they're  like  most  tourists  they'll  think  the 
rough-scuff  ways  of  the  Boston  House  great  fun.  By 
the  way,  how  old  is  this  little  sister?" 

"Oh,  she  must  be  about  twenty-two." 

"Good  Lord!"  Kelley  was  dashed.  He  thought  a 
minute.  "Well,  you  attend  to  her  and  I'll  keep  the  old 
lady  interested." 

"No,  you've  got  to  keep  close  to  Flo.  I'm  more 
132 


PARTNERS    FOR   A    DAY 

afraid  of  her  than  I  am  of  mother.  She's  sharp  as 
tacks,  and  the  least  little  'break'  on  my  part  will  let 
her  in  on  my  'stall.'  No,  you've  got  to  be  on  guard 
all  the  time." 

"Well,  I'll  do  my  best,  but  I'm  no  'Billie  dear,'  with 
girls.  I've  grew  up  on  the  trail,  and  my  talk  is  mostly 
red-neck.  But  I  mean  well,  as  the  fellow  says,  even  if 
I  don't  always  do  well." 

"Oh,  you're  all  right,  Kelley.  You  look  the  real 
thing.  You'll  be  part  of  the  scenery  for  them." 

"Spin  the  marble!  It's  only  for  half  a  day,  anyway. 
They  can  call  me  a  hole  in  the  ground  if  they  want 
to.  But  you  must  get  some  tan.  I  tell  you  what  you 
do.  You  go  up  on  the  hill  and  lay  down  in  the  sun 
and  burn  that  saloon  bleach  off  your  face  and  neck  and 
hands.  That's  got  to  be  done.  You've  got  the  com 
plexion  of  a  barber." 

Morse  looked  at  his  white,  supple  hands  and  felt  of 
his  smooth  chin.  "You're  right.  It's  a  dead  give-away. 
I'll  look  like  a  jailbird  to  them  if  I  don't  color  up.  If 
I'd  only  known  it  a  few  days  sooner  I'd  have  started 
a  beard." 

"You'll  be  surprised  at  what  the  sun  will  do  in  two 
hours,"  Kelley  said,  encouragingly.  "You'll  peel  after 
ward,  but  you'll  get  rid  of  the  bleach." 


ii 

In  truth  Morse  looked  very  well  the  next  morning 
as  he  stood  beside  Kelley  and  watched  the  High  Line 
train  come  in  over  the  shoulder  of  Mogallon  and  loop  its 
cautious  way  down  the  mine-pitted  slopes.  His  main 
uneasiness  was  caused  by  the  thought  that  his  mother 
might  ask  some  man  on  the  train  if  he  knew  her  son, 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

and  he  was  disturbed  also  by  a  number  of  citizens  loung 
ing  on  the  platform.  Some  of  them  were  curious  about 
the  change  in  him:  "Hello,  Fred!  Going  fishing,  or 
been?" 

The  boy  was  trembling  as  he  laid  his  hand  on  Kelley's 
arm.  "Ed,  I  feel  like  a  coyote.  It's  a  dang  shame  to 
fool  your  old  mother  like  this." 

"Better  to  fool  her  than  to  disappoint  her,"  answered 
Tall  Ed.  ' '  Stiffen  up,  boy !  Carry  it  through. ' ' 

The  little  train  drew  up  to  the  station  and  disgorged 
a  crowd  of  Italian  workmen  from  the  smoker  and  a 
throng  of  tourists  from  the  observation-car,  and  among 
these  gay  "trippers"  Kelley  saw  a  small,  plain  little 
woman  in  black  and  a  keen-eyed,  laughing  girl  who 
waved  her  hand  to  Fred.  "Why,  she's  a  queen!" 
thought  Kelley. 

Mrs.  Morse  embraced  her  son  with  a  few  murmured 
words  of  endearment,  but  the  girl  held  her  brother  off 
and  looked  at  him.  "Well,  you  do  look  the  part,"  she 
said.  "What  a  glorious  sunburn — and  the  boots — and 
the  hat,  and  all!  Why,  Fred,  you  resemble  a  man." 

"I  may  resemble  one,"  he  said,  "but  here's  the  real 
thing.  Here's  my  partner,  Tall  Ed  Kelley."  He  pulled 
Kelley  by  the  arm.  "Ed,  this  is  my  mother — " 

"Howdy,  ma'am,"  said  Kelley,  extending  a  timid 
hand. 

"And  this  is  my  sister  Florence." 

"Howdy,  miss,"  repeated  Kelley.1 

Florence  laughed  as  she  shook  hands.  "He  says 
'Howdy'  just  like  the  books." 

Kelley  stiffened  a  bit.  "What  should  a  feller  say? 
Howdy 's  the  word." 

"I  told  you  she'd  consider  you  part  of  the  scenery," 
put  in  Fred.  "Well,  now,  mother,  we're  going  to  take 

134 


PARTNERS    FOR   A    DAY 

you  right  up  to  our  mine.     It's  away  on  top  of  that 
hill—" 

"Oh,  glorious!"  exclaimed  Florence.  "And  is  it  a 
real  mine?" 

"It  is.  But  Kelley  is  boss,  so  I'm  going  to  let  him 
tell  you  all  about  it.  He's  the  man  that  found  it." 

Mrs.  Morse  looked  up  at  the  towering  hill.  "How  do 
we  get  there?" 

"A  trolley-car  runs  part  way,  and  then — we'll  take  a 
cab.  Come  on,"  he  added,  anxiously,  for  he  could  see 
some  of  his  saloon  friends  edging  near. 

The  trolley  came  down  almost  to  the  station,  and  in 
a  few  moments  they  were  aboard  with  Kelley  seated 
beside  Florence  and  Mrs.  Morse  fondly  clinging  to  her 
son,  who  seemed  more  boyish  than  ever  to  Kelley.  The 
old  trailer  was  mightily  embarrassed  by  his  close  con 
tact  with  a  sprightly  girl.  He  had  never  known  any 
one  like  her.  She  looked  like  the  pictures  in  the  maga 
zines — same  kind  of  hat,  same  kind  of  jacket  and  skirt — 
and  she  talked  like  a  magazine  story,  too.  Her  face  was 
small,  her  lips  sweet,  and  her  eyes  big  and  bright. 

She  was  chatty  as  a  camp  bird,  and  saw  everything, 
and  wanted  to  know  about  it.  Why  were  there  so 
many  empty  cabins?  What  was  the  meaning  of  all 
those  rusty,  ruined  mills?  Weren't  there  any  gardens 
or  grass? 

"Why,  you  see,  miss,  the  camp  is  an  old  busted  camp. 
I'm  working  a  lease — I  mean,  we  are — " 

"What  do  you  mean  by  a  lease?" 

"Well,  you  see,  a  lot  of  men  have  got  discouraged 
and  quit,  and  went  back  East  and  offered  their  claims 
for  lease  on  royalty,  and  I  and  another  feller — and  Fred 
— we  took  one  of  these  and  it  happened  to  have  ore 
in  it." 

10  I3S 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

"How  long  has  Fred  been  with  you? — he  never  men 
tioned  you  in  his  letters." 

"Why,  it's  about  a  year  since  we  took  the  lease." 
Kelley  began  to  grow  hot  under  her  keen  eyes. 

"Strange  he  never  wrote  of  you.  He  seems  very 
proud  of  you,  too." 

Kelley  looked  out  of  the  window.  "We  get  along 
first  rate." 

The  girl  studied  his  fine  profile  attentively.  "I'm 
glad  he  fell  in  with  a  strong  man  like  you — an  experi 
enced  miner.  He  might  have  made  a  mistake  and  lost 
all  his  small  fortune.  My!  but  it's  fine  up  here!  What's 
that  wonderful  snowy  range  off  there?" 

"That's  the  Sangre  de  Cristo  Range." 

"Sangre  de  Cristo— Blood  of  Christ!  Those  old 
Spaniards  had  a  lot  of  poetry  in  them,  didn't  they?" 

"  I  reckon  so — and  a  whole  lot  of  stiffening,  too.  You 
go  through  the  Southwest  and  see  the  country  they 
trailed  over — the  hot,  dry  places  and  the  quicksands 
and  canons  and  all  that.  They  sure  made  them  Injuns 
remember  when  they  passed  by." 

"You  know  that  country?" 

"  I  may  say  I  do.  It  was  my  parade-ground  for  about 
fifteen  years.  I  roamed  over  most  of  it.  It's  a  fine 
country." 

"Why  did  you  leave  it?     Do  you  like  this  better?" 

"I  like  any  new  country.     I  like  to  explore." 

"But  you're  settled  for  a  while?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know — if  my  partner  will  take  my 
interest,  I  think  I'll  shift  along.  I  want  to  get  into 
Alaska  finally.  I'd  like  to  climb  one  of  them  high 
peaks." 

Fred,  who  was  seated  in  front,  turned.  "  Mother  wants 
to  know  what  the  mine  paid  last  year — you  tell  her." 

136 


PARTNERS    FOR    A    DAY 

"It  didn't  pay  much,"  replied  Kelley,  cautiously. 
"You  see,  we  had  some  new  machinery  to  put  in  and 
some  roads  to  grade  and  one  thing  or  another — I  reckon 
it  paid  about" —  he  hesitated —  "about  three  hundred  a 
month.  But  it's  going  to  do  better  this  year." 

Florence,  who  was  studying  the  men  sharply,  then  said, 
"You  wrote  you  were  getting  about  five  dollars  a  clay." 

Fred's  face  showed  distress.  "I  meant  net"  he  said. 
"I  didn't  want  to  worry  you  about  details  of  machinery 
and  all  that." 

Kelley  began  to  feel  that  the  girl's  ears  and  eyes 
were  alert  to  all  discrepancies,  and  he  became  cautious 
— so  cautious  that  his  pauses  revealed  more  than  his 
words.  But  the  mother  saw  nothing,  heard  nothing, 
but  the  face  and  voice  of  her  son,  who  pointed  out  the 
big  mines  that  were  still  running  and  the  famous  ones 
that  were  "dead,"  and  so  kept  her  from  looking  too 
closely  at  the  steep  grades  up  which  the  car  climbed. 

At  length,  on  the  very  crest  of  the  high,  smooth  hill, 
they  alighted  and  Fred  led  the  way  toward  a  rusty 
old  hack  that  looked  as  much  out  of  place  on  that 
wind-swept  point  as  a  Chinese  pagoda. 

Florence  spoke  of  it.  "Looks  like  Huckleberry 
Springs.  Whom  does  its  owner  find  to  carry  up  here?" 

"Mostly  it  carries  the  minister  and  undertaker  at 
funerals,"  replied  Kelley. 

"Cheerful  lot!"  exclaimed  the  girl.  "It  smells 
morbific." 

"You  can't  be  particular  up  here,"  responded  Fred. 
"You'll  find  our  boarding-place  somewhat  crude." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind  crudeness — but  I  hate  decayed 
pretensions.  If  this  were  only  a  mountain  cart  now!" 

"It  was  the  only  kerridge  with  springs,"  explained 
Kelley. 

137 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

The  little  mother  now  began  to  take  notice  of  her 
son's  partner.  "My  son  tells  me  you  have  been  very 
good  to  him — a  kind  of  big  brother.  I  am  very  grate 
ful." 

"Oh,  I've  done  no  more  for  him  than  he  has  for  me. 
We  both  felt  kind  of  lonesome  and  so  rode  alongside." 

"It's  wonderful  to  me  how  you  could  keep  Mr. 
Kelley  out  of  your  letters,"  said  Florence.  "He  looks 
exactly  like  a  Remington  character,  only  his  eyes  are 
honester  and  his  profile  handsomer." 

Kelley  flushed  and  Fred  laughed.  "  I  never  did  under 
stand  why  Remington  made  all  his  men  cross-eyed." 

Mrs.  Morse  put  her  small,  cold  hand  on  Kelley's  wrist. 
"Don't  mind  my  daughter.  She's  got  this  new  fad  of 
speaking  her  mind.  She's  a  good  daughter — even  if 
she  does  say  rude  things." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind  being  called  'a  good-looker,'"  said 
Kelley,  "only  I  want  to  be  sure  I'm  not  being  made 
game  of." 

"You  needn't  worry,"  retorted  Fred.  "A  man  of 
your  inches  is  safe  from  ridicule." 

"Ridicule!"  exclaimed  Florence,  with  a  glance  of 
admiration.  "You  can't  ridicule  a  tall  pine." 

"I  told  you  she'd  have  you  a  part  of  the  landscape," 
exulted  Fred.  "She'll  have  you  a  mountain  peak  next." 

Kelley,  who  felt  himself  at  a  disadvantage,  remained 
silent,  but  not  in  a  sulky  mood.  The  girl  was  too  en 
tertaining  for  that.  It  amused  him  to  get  the  point  of 
view  of  a  city-bred  woman  to  whom  everything  was 
either  strange  or  related  to  some  play  or  story  she  had 
known.  The  cabins,  the  mills,  the  occasional  miners 
they  met,  all  absorbed  her  attention,  and  when  they 
reached  the  little  shaft-house  and  were  met  by  old  Hank 
Stoddard,  Kelley's  partner,  her  satisfaction  was  com- 

138 


PARTNERS    FOR   A    DAY 

plete,  for  Hank  had  all  the  earmarks  of  the  old  prospector 
—tangled  beard,  jack-boots,  pipe,  flannel  shirt,  and  all. 
He  was  from  the  South  also,  and  spoke  with  a  drawl. 

"Oh,  but  he  is  a  joy!"  Florence  said,  privately,  to 
Kelley.  "I  didn't  know  such  Bret  Harte  types  existed 
any  more.  How  did  you  find  him?" 

"I  used  to  know  him  down  on  the  Perco.  He  had  a 
mine  down  there  that  came  just  within  a  hair-line  of 
paying,  and  when  I  ran  across  him  up  here  he  had  a 
notion  the  mine  would  do  to  lease.  I  hadn't  much,  only 
a  horse  and  saddle  and  a  couple  of  hundred  dollars,  but 
we  formed  a  partnership." 

"That  was  before  my  brother  came  into  the  firm." 

Kelley  recovered  himself.  "Yes;  you  see,  he  came  in 
a  little  later — when  we  needed  a  little  ready  cash." 

She  seemed  satisfied,  but  as  they  went  into  the  mine 
she  listened  closely  to  all  that  Kelley  and  Stoddard 
said.  Stoddard's  remarks  were  safe,  for  he  never  so 
much  as  mentioned  Kelley 's  name.  It  was  all  "I"  with 
old  Hank— "I  did  this"  and  "I  did  that"— till  Florence 
said  to  Kelley: 

"You  junior  partners  in  this  mine  don't  seem  to  be 
anything  but  'company'  for  Mr.  Stoddard." 

"Hank  always  was  a  bit  conceited,"  admitted  Kelley. 
"But  then,  he  is  a  real,  sure-enough  miner.  We  are 
only  'capitalists.'" 

"Where  did  Fred  get  all  the  signs  of  toil  on  his  trousers 
and  boots?"  she  asked,  with  dancing  eyes. 

"Oh,  he  works — part  of  the  time." 

She  peered  into  his  face  with  roguish  glance.  "Does 
it  all  with  his  legs,  I  guess.  I  notice  his  hands  are  soft 
as  mine." 

Kelley  nearly  collapsed.  "Good  Lord!"  he  thought. 
"You  ought  to  be  a  female  detective."  He  came  to  the 


THEY    OF    THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

line  gamely.  "Well,  there's  a  good  deal  of  running  to 
be  done,  and  we  let  him  do  the  outside  messenger 
work." 

"His  sunburn  seems  quite  recent.  And  his  trousers 
don't  fit  as  his  trousers  usually  do.  He  used  to  be  finicky 
about  such  things." 

"A  feller  does  get  kind  of  careless  up  here  in  the  hills," 
Kelley  argued. 

They  did  not  stay  long  in  the  mine,  for  there  wasn't 
much  to  see.  It  was  a  very  small  mine — and  walking 
made  the  mother  short  of  breath.  And  so  they  came 
back  to  the  office  and  Hank  arranged  seats  on  some 
dynamite-boxes  and  a  keg  of  spikes,  and  then  left  them 
to  talk  things  over. 

"I'm  so  glad  you're  up  here — where  it's  so  clean  and 
quiet,"  said  the  mother.  "I'm  told  these  mining  towns 
are  dreadful,  almost  barbaric,  even  yet.  Of  course 
they're  not  as  they  were  in  Bret  Harte's  time,  but  they 
are  said  to  be  rough  and  dangerous.  I  hope  you  don't 
have  to  go  down  there  often." 

"Of  course  I  have  to  go,  mother.  We  get  all  our  sup 
plies  and  our  mail  down  there." 

"I  suppose  that's  true.  But  Mr.  Kelley  seems  such 
a  strong,  capable  person" — here  she  whispered — "but 
I  don't  think  much  of  your  other  partner,  Mr.  Stoddard." 

"Who?  Old  Hank?  Why,  he's  steady  as  a  clock. 
He  looks  rough,  but  he's  the  kindest  old  chap  on  the 
hill.  Why,  he's  scared  to  death  of  you  and  Flo — 

"He  has  the  appearance  of  a  neglected  old  bachelor." 

"Well,  he  isn't.  He  has  a  wife  and  seven  children 
back  in  Tennessee — so  he  says." 

"Fred,"  said  Florence,  sharply,  "I  hope  you  aren't 
playing  off  on  these  partners  of  yours." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

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PARTNERS    FOR    A    DAY 

"I  mean — letting  them  do  all  the  hard  and  disagree 
able  work." 

Kelley  interposed.  "  Don't  you  worry  about  us,  miss. 
We  aren't  complaining.  We  can't  do  the  part  he  does. 
He  does  all  the  buying  and  selling — and — correspondence 
—and  the  like  of  that.  But  come,  it's  pretty  near  noon. 
I  reckon  we'd  better  drift  along  to  Mrs.  Finnegan's. 
The  first  table  is  bad  enough  in  our  boarding-place." 

Again  Fred  took  his  mother  and  left 'Kelley  to  lead 
the  way  with  Florence. 

"Now,  Mr.  Kelley,"  began  the  girl,  "I  must  tell  you 
that  I  don't  believe  my  brother  has  a  thing  to  do  with 
this  mine  except  to  divide  the  profits.  Furthermore,  you 
are  trying  to  cover  something  up  from  me.  You're  doing 
it  very  well,  but  you've  made  one  or  two  little  '  catches ' 
which  have  disturbed  me.  My  brother  has  never  men 
tioned  you  or  Hank  in  his  letters,  and  that's  unnatural. 
He  told  us  he  was  interested  in  a  mine  which  w^as  paying 
one  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  a  month.  Now,  why  did 
he  say  that?  I'll  tell  you  why.  It's  because  you  pay 
him  a  salary  and  he's  not  really  a  partner."  She  paused 
to  watch  his  face,  then  went  on.  "Now  what  does  he 
do — what  can  he  do  to  earn  five  dollars  per  day?  His 
palms  are  as  soft  as  silk — the  only  callous  is  on  his  right 
forefinger. ' ' 

Kelley's  face,  schooled  to  impassivity,  remained  un 
changed,  but  his  eyes  shifted.  His  astonishment  was 
too  great  to  be  entirely  concealed.  "There's  a  whole  lot 
of  running — and  figuring — and  so  on." 

"Not  with  that  little  mine.  Why,  you  can't  employ 
more  than  five  men!" 

"Six,"  corrected  Kelley,  proudly. 

"Well,  six.  You  can't  afford  to  pay  my  brother  five 
dollars  a  day  just  to  run  errands  and  keep  accounts  for 

141 


THEY    OF    THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

these  six  men.  You're  fooling  him.  You're  paying  him 
a  salary  out  of  sheer  good  nature  because  you  like  him. 
Deny  it  if  you  can!" 

Kelley  looked  back  to  see  that  Fred  was  well  out  of 
earshot.  "He  is  mighty  good  company,"  he  admitted. 

"There!"  she  exclaimed,  triumphantly.  "You  can't 
fool  me.  I  knew  there  was  something  queer  about  this 
whole  arrangement."  Then  her  voice  changed.  "It's 
very,  very  kind  of  you,  Mr.  Kelley,  and  I  deeply  appre 
ciate  it,  and  if  you  don't  want  me  to  do  it — I  will  not  let 
mother  into  our  secret." 

"What's  the  use?  He's  happier  being  called  a  part 
ner." 

"Very  well — we'll  let  it  go  that  way." 

Thereafter  her  manner  changed.  She  was  more 
thoughtful;  she  looked  at  him  with  softer  eyes.  It 
seemed  to  her  very  wonderful,  this  friendship  between 
a  rough,  big  man  and  her  brother,  who  had  always  been 
something  of  a  scapegrace  at  home.  Her  own  regard  for 
Kelley  deepened.  "Men  aren't  such  brutes,  after  all." 

Her  smile  was  less  mocking,  her  jests  less  pointed, 
as  she  sat  at  Mrs.  Finnegan's  long  table  and  ate  boiled 
beef  and  cabbage  and  drank  the  simmered  hay  which 
they  called  tea.  She  was  opposite  Kelley  this  time, 
and  could  study  him  to  better  advantage. 

Kelley,  on  his  part,  was  still  very  uneasy.  The  girl's 
uncanny  penetration  had  pressed  so  clearly  to  the  heart 
of  his  secret  that  he  feared  the  hours  which  remained. 
"I'm  at  the  end  of  my  rope,"  he  inwardly  admitted. 
"She'll  catch  me  sure  unless  I  can  get  away  from 
her." 

Nevertheless,  he  wondered  a  little  and  was  a  trifle 
chagrined  when  the  girl  suddenly  turned  from  him  to  her 
brother.  He  was  a  little  uneasy  thereat,  for  he  was  cer^ 

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PARTNERS    FOR   A    DAY 

tain  she  would  draw  from  the  youngster  some  admissions 
that  would  lead  to  a  full  confession. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  sought  her  brother's  knowledge 
of  Kelley.  "Tell  me  about  him,  Fred.  Where  did  you 
meet  him  first  ?  He  interests  me." 

"Well,"  Morse  answered,  cautiously,  "I  don't  know 
exactly.  I  used  to  see  him  come  down  the  hill  of  an 
evening  after  his  mail,  and  I  kind  of  took  a  shine  to 
him  and  he  did  to  me.  At  least  that's  what  he  said 
afterward.  He  has  had  a  wonderful  career.  He's  been 
all  over  Arizona  and  New  Mexico  alone.  He's  been  ar 
rested  for  a  bandit  and  almost  killed  as  city  marshal, 
and  he  has  been  associated  with  a  band  of  cattle-rustlers. 
Oh,  you  should  get  him  talking.  He  nearly  died  of 
thirst  in  the  desert  once,  and  a  snake  bit  him  in  the 
Navajo  country,  and  he  lay  sick  for  weeks  in  a  Hopi 
town." 

"What  a  singular  life!     Is  he  satisfied  with  it?" 

"He  says  he  is.  He  declares  he  is  never  so  happy 
as  when  he  is  leading  a  pack-horse  across  the  range." 

"I  don't  wonder  you  like  him,"  she  said,  thought 
fully.  "But  you  should  do  your  part.  Don't  let  him 
be  always  the  giver  and  you  the  taker.  I'm  afraid  you 
shirk  on  him  a  little,  Fred." 

"Why?    What  makes  you  think  that?" 

"Well,  your  hands  are  pretty  soft  for  a  working 
miner." 

He  met  her  attack  bravely.  "You  don't  suppose  we 
do  all  the  pick  work  in  the  mine,  do  you?" 

"No.  I  don't  see  how  you  could  possibly  do  any  of 
it.  Come  now,  Freddy,  '  'fess  up.'  You've  been  play 
ing  the  gentleman  in  this  enterprise  and  all  this  make 
up  is  for  our  benefit,  isn't  it?" 

Young  Morse  saw  that  the  safest  plan  was  to  admit 


THEY   OF    THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

the  truth  of  her  surmise.  "Oh,  well,  I  never  did  have 
any  hand  in  the  actual  mining,  but  then  there  is  plenty 
of  other  work  to  be  done." 

Her  answer  was  sharp  and  clear:  "Well,  then,  do  it! 
Don't  be  a  drone." 

Something  very  plain  and  simple  and  boyish  came 
out  in  the  young  gambler  as  he  walked  and  talked  with 
his  mother  and  sister,  and  Kelley  regarded  him  with 
some  amazement  and  much  humor.  It  only  proved 
that  every  man,  no  matter  how  warlike  he  pretends  to 
be  in  public,  is  in  private  a  weak,  sorry  soul,  dependent 
on  some  one;  and  this  youth,  so  far  from  being  a  des 
perado,  was  by  nature  an  affectionate  son  and  a  loyal 
brother. 

Furthermore,  Kelley  himself  felt  very  much  less  the 
tramp  and  much  more  "like  folks"  than  at  any  time 
since  leaving  home  ten  or  fifteen  years  before.  He  was 
careful  to  minimize  all  his  hobo  traits  and  to  corre 
spondingly  exalt  his  legitimate  mining  and  cattle  ex 
periences,  although  he  could  see  that  Morse  had  made 
Florence  curious  about  the  other  and  more  adventurous 
side  of  his  career. 

Florence  was  now  determined  to  make  a  study  of  the 
town.  "I  like  it  up  here,"  she  said,  as  she  looked  down 
over  the  tops  of  the  houses.  "It  interests  me,  Fred;  I 
propose  that  you  keep  us  all  night." 

"Oh,  we  can't  do  that!"  exclaimed  her  brother, 
hastily.  ' '  We  haven't  room. ' ' 

"Well,  there's  a  hotel,  I  should  hope." 

"A  hotel — yes.  But  it  is  a  pretty  bad  hotel.  You 
see,  it's  sort  of  run  down — like  the  town." 

This  did  not  seem  to  disturb  her.  Rather,  it  added 
to  her  interest.  "No  matter.  We  can  stand  it  one 
night.  I  want  to  see  the  place.  I  would  like  to  see  a 

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PARTNERS    FOR    A    DAY 

little  of  its  street  life  to-night.  It's  all  so  new  and 
strange  to  me." 

Kelley,  perceiving  that  she  was  determined  upon  this 
stop-over,  and  fearing  that  the  attempt  to  railroad  her 
out  of  town  on  the  afternoon  train  might  add  to  her 
suspicions,  then  said: 

"I  think  we  can  find  a  place  for  you  if  you  feel  like 
staying." 

Morse  was  extremely  uneasy,  and  Florence  remarked 
upon  it.  "  You  don't  seem  overflowing  with  hospitality, 
Fred.  You  don't  seem  anxious  to  have  us  stay  on  for 
another  day." 

He  shifted  his  weight  from  one  foot  to  the  other. 
"Well,  it's  a  pretty  rough  old  village,  Flo — a  pretty 
rough  place  for  you  and  mother." 

"We  are  not  alarmed  so  long  as  we  have  you  and  Mr. 
Kelley  as  our  protectors,"  she  replied,  smiling  sweetly 
upon  Tall  Ed. 

They  had  reached  the  car-line  by  this  time,  and 
were  standing  looking  down  the  valley,  and  Fred,  pull 
ing  out  his  watch,  remarked:  "You  just  have  time  to 
make  that  three-o'clock  train.  That  will  connect  you 
with  the  night  express  for  Los  Angeles." 

"Fred,  what's  the  matter  with  you?"  queried  his 
sister,  sharply.  "You  seem  absolutely  determined  to 
get  rid  of  us  at  once."  Then,  seeing  that  she  had  per 
haps  gone  a  little  too  far,  she  said,  with  a  smile,  "  Mother, 
isn't  he  the  loving  son?" 

The  youth  surrendered  to  her  will  and  dropped  all 
opposition.  He  appeared  to  welcome  their  decision  to 
wait  over  another  day;  but  Kelley  busied  himself  with 
thinking  how  he  could  ward  off  any  undesired  informa 
tion  which  might  approach  the  two  women — the  mother 
especially.  It  would  be  quite  wonderful  if,  with  another 

145 


THEY   OF   THE   HIGH   TRAILS 

twenty-four  hours  to  spend,  Florence  did  not  get  Fred's 
secret  from  him. 

He  decided  to  put  the  matter  squarely  before  her, 
and  when  they  took  the  car  arranged  to  have  her  sit 
beside  him  in  a  seat  across  the  aisle  from  the  mother 
and  son,  and  almost  immediately  began  his  explanation 
by  saying,  very  significantly : 

"I  reckon  the  boy  is  right,  Miss  Morse.  You  had 
better  take  that  three-o'clock  train." 

She  faced  him  with  instant  appreciation  of  the  change 
in  his  tone.  "Why  so?"  she  asked,  fixing  a  clear  and 
steady  glance  upon  his  face. 

"It  will  be  easier  for  him  and  better  for — for  all 
of  us  if  you  go.  He  wants  to  spare  your  mother 
from—" 

She  was  quick  to  perceive  his  hesitation.  "From 
what?"  she  asked.  And  as  he  did  not  at  once  reply  she 
went  on,  firmly:  "You  might  just  as  well  tell  me,  Mr. 
Kelley.  Fred's  been  up  to  some  mischief.  He's  afraid, 
and  you're  afraid,  we'll  find  out  something  to  his  dis 
advantage.  Now  tell  me.  Is  it — is  it — a  woman?" 

"No,"  said  Kelley  as  decisively  as  he  could.  "So 
far  as  I  know  Fred's  not  tangled  up  that  way." 

Quick  as  a  flash  she  took  him  up  on  his  emphasized 
word.  "In  what  way  is  he  tangled  up?" 

Kelley,  more  and  more  amazed  at  her  shrewdness 
and  directness,  decided  to  meet  it  with  blunt  candor. 
"Well,  you  see,  it's  like  this.  When  he  first  came  out 
here  he  struck  a  streak  of  hard  luck  and  lost  all  he  had. 
He  was  forced  to  go  to  work  at  anything  he  could  get 
to  earn  money,  and — you  see,  when  a  feller  is  down  and 
out  he's  got  to  grab  anything  that  offers — and  so, 
when  Dutch  Pete  took  a  liking  to  him  and  offered  him 
a  job,  he  just  naturally  had  to  take  it." 

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PARTNERS    FOR   A    DAY 

"You  mean  he  has  been  working  at  something  we 
wouldn't  like  to  know  about?" 

''That's  the  size  of  it." 

"What  is  this  job?  It  isn't  working  for  you.  You 
wouldn't  ask  him  to  do  anything  that  would  be  dis 
graceful." 

Kelley  did  not  take  time  to  appreciate  this  com 
pliment.  He  made  his  plunge.  "No.  He  has  been 
working  for — a  saloon." 

She  showed  the  force  of  the  blow  by  asking  in  a  hor 
rified  tone,  "You  don't  mean  tending  bar!" 

"  Oh  no !  Not  so  bad  as  that, ' '  replied  Kelley.  ' '  Least 
ways  it  don't  seem  so  bad  to  me.  He's  been  rolling  the 
marble  in  a  roulette  wheel." 

She  stared  at  him  in  perplexity.  "I  don't  believe — I 
— I  don't  believe  I  understand  what  that  is.  Just  tell 
me  exactly." 

"Well,  he's  been  taking  care  of  a  roulette  layout." 

"You  mean  he  has  been  gambling?" 

"Well,  no.  He  hasn't  been  gambling.  At  least,  not 
lately.  But  he  represents  the  house,  you  see.  He  is 
something  like  a  dealer  at  faro  and  is  on  a  salary." 

She  comprehended  fully  now — at  least  she  compre 
hended  enough  to  settle  back  into  her  seat  with  a  very 
severe  and  somber  expression  on  her  face.  "That's 
where  his  five  per  day  comes  from."  She  mused  for 
a  little  while  on  this,  and  then  suddenly  another  thought 
came  to  her:  "What  about  his  being  your  partner?" 

Kelley  saw  that  it  was  necessary  to  go  the  whole  way, 
and  he  said,  quietly:  "That  was  all  fixed  up  yesterday. 
You  see,  he  wanted  to  save  your  mother  and  you,  and 
he  came  to  me — and  wanted  me  to  take  him  in  as  a 
partner,  and — I  did  it." 

"You  mean  a  partner  for  a  day?" 


THEY    OF    THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

"Yes.  He  was  mighty  nervous  about  your  coming, 
and  I  told  him  I  would  help  him  out.  Of  course,  it 
didn't  worry  me  none,  and  so  I  concluded  I  would  do 
it." 

Her  face  softened  as  she  pondered  upon  this.  "That 
was  very  good  of  you,  Mr.  Kelley." 

"Oh  no!  You  see,  I  kinda  like  the  boy.  And  then 
we've  been  partners — side  partners.  We  room  to 
gether." 

She  looked  out  of  the  window,  but  she  saw  nothing  of 
the  landscape  now.  "I  understand  it  all.  You  want 
me  to  take  mother  away  before  she  finds  out." 

"Tears  like  that  is  the  best  thing  for  you  to  do.  It 
would  hit  her  a  good  deal  harder  than  it  does  you." 

"It  hits  me  hard  enough,"  she  replied.  "To  think  of 
my  brother  running  a  gambling-machine  in  a  saloon  is 
not  especially  reassuring.  You  say  he  went  into  it  to 
carry  him  over  a  hard  place.  I'm  afraid  you  were  sav 
ing  my  feelings  in  saying  that,  Mr.  Kelley.  How  long 
has  he  been  in  this  business?" 

"A  little  less  than  a  year." 

"And  you  want  me  to  go  away  without  trying  to  get 
him  out  of  this  awful  trade?" 

"I  don't  see  how  you  could  safely  try  it.  I  think  he 
is  going  to  quit  it  himself.  Your  coming  has  been  a 
terrible  jolt  to  him.  Now  I'll  tell  you  what  you  do. 
You  take  the  old  lady  and  pull  out  over  the  hill  and  I'll 
undertake  to  get  the  boy  out  of  this  gambling  myself." 

She  was  deeply  affected  by  his  quiet  and  earnest  man 
ner,  and  studied  him  with  reflective  glance  before  she 
said:  "You're  right.  Mother  must  never  know  of  this. 
She  was  brought  up  to  believe  that  saloons  and  gambling 
were  the  devil's  strongest  lure  for  souls,  and  it  would 
break  her  heart  to  know  that  Fred  has  become  a  gam- 

148 


PARTNERS    FOR    A    DAY 

bier.  I  will  do  as  you  say,  Mr.  Kelley.  I  will  take  this 
train.  But  you  must  write  me  and  tell  me  what  you  do. 
You  will  write,  won't  you?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Kelley,  hesitatingly.  "I'll  write — but 
I  ain't  much  of  a  fist  at  it.  Of  course,  I  may  not  make 
a  go  of  my  plan,  but  I  think  it  will  work  out  all  right." 

She  reached  her  hand  to  him,  as  if  to  seal  a  compact, 
and  he  took  it.  She  said:  "I  don't  know  who  you  are 
or  what  you  are,  Mr.  Kelley.  But  you've  been  a  loyal 
friend  to  my  brother  and  very  considerate  of  my  mother 
and  me,  and  I  appreciate  it  deeply." 

Kelley  flushed  under  the  pressure  of  her  small  fingers, 
and  replied  as  indifferently  as  he  could:  "That's  all 
right,  miss.  I've  got  a  mother  and  a  sister  myself." 

"Well,  they'd  be  proud  of  you  if  they  could  know 
what  you  have  done  to-day,"  she  said. 

His  face  took  on  a  look  of  sadness.  "They  might. 
But  I'm  glad  they  don't  know  all  I've  been  through  in 
the  last  ten  years." 


in 

Morse  was  surprised,  almost  delighted,  when  his  sister 
announced  her  decision  to  take  the  afternoon  train. 
"That's  right,"  he  said.  "You  can  stop  on  your  way 
back  in  the  spring.  Perhaps  Kelley  and  I  will  have  our 
own  house  by  that  time." 

The  train  was  on  the  siding,  nearly  ready  to  start, 
and  there  was  not  much  chance  for  further  private  con 
ference,  but  Florence  succeeded  in  getting  a  few  final 
words  with  Kelley. 

"I  wish  you  would  tell  me  what  your  plan  is,"  she 
said.  "You  needn't  if  you  don't  want  to." 

Kelley  seemed  embarrassed,  but  concluded  to  reply. 
149 


THEY   OF   THE   HIGH   TRAILS 

"It  is  very  simple,"  said  he.  "I'm  going  to  make  him 
an  actual  partner  in  the  mine.  I'm  going  to  deed  him 
an  interest,  so  that  when  you  come  back  in  the  spring 
he  won't  have  to  lie  about  it." 

Her  glance  increased  his  uneasiness.  "I  don't  under 
stand  you,  Mr.  Kelley.  You  must  love  my  brother." 

He  could  not  quite  meet  her  glance  as  he  answered. 
"Well,  I  wouldn't  use  exactly  that  word,"  he  said,  slowly, 
"but  I've  taken  a  great  notion  to  him — and  then,  as  I 
say,  I  have  an  old  mother  myself." 

The  bell  on  the  engine  began  to  ring,  and  she  caught 
his  hand  in  both  of  hers  and  pressed  it  hard.  "I  leave 
him  in  your  hands,"  she  said,  and  looked  up  at  him  with 
eyes  that  were  wet  with  tears,  and  then  in  a  low  voice 
she  added:  "If  I  dared  to  I'd  give  you  a  good  hug — 
but  I  daren't.  Good-by — and  be  sure  and  write." 

As  they  stood  to  watch  the  train  climb  the  hill,  Morse 
drew  a  deep  sigh  and  said:  "Gee!  but  Flo  is  keen!  I 
thought  one  while  she  was  going  to  get  my  goat.  I  won 
der  what  made  her  change  her  mind  all  of  a  sudden?" 

Kelley  looked  down  at  him  somberly.     "I  did." 

"You  did?    How?" 

"I  told  her  what  you  had  really  been  working  at." 

The  boy  staggered  under  the  force  of  this.  "Holy 
smoke!  Did  you  do  that?" 

"Sure  I  did.  It  was  the  only  way  to  save  that  dear 
old  mother  of  yours.  I  told  your  sister  also  that  I  was 
going  to  stop  your  white-marble  exercise,  and  I'm  going 
to  do  it  if  I  have  to  break  your  back." 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  sincerity  and  determina 
tion  of  Kelley's  tone,  and  the  young  man,  so  far  from 
resenting  these  qualities,  replied,  meekly:  "I  want  to 
get  out  of  it,  Ed.  I've  been  saying  all  day  that  I  must 
quit  it.  But  what  can  I  do?" 

150 


PARTNERS    FOR   A    DAY 

"I'll  tell  you  my  plan,"  said  Kelley,  with  decision. 
"You've  got  to  buy  my  interest  in  the  mine." 

Morse  laughed.  "But  I  haven't  any  money.  I 
haven't  three  hundred  dollars  in  the  world." 

"I'll  take  your  note,  provided  your  sister  will  indorse 
it,  and  she  will." 

The  young  fellow  looked  up  at  his  tall  friend  in 
amazement  which  turned  at  last  into  amusement.  He 
began  to  chuckle.  "Good  Lord!  I  knew  you'd  made 
a  mash  on  Flo,  but  I  didn't  know  it  was  mutual.  I  heard 
her  say,  'be  sure  and  write.'"  He  slapped  Kelley  on 
the  back.  "There'll  be  something  doing  when  she 
comes  back  in  the  spring,  eh?" 

Kelley  remained  unmoved.  "There  will  be  if  she 
finds  you  rolling  that  white  marble." 

"She  won't.  I'll  take  your  offer.  But  what  will 
you  be  doing?" 

"Climbing  some  Alaska  trail,"  replied  Kelley,  with  a 
remote  glance. 

11 


THE  PROSPECTOR 


— still  pushes  his  small  pack-mule 
through  the  snow  of  glacial  passes 
seeking  the  unexplored,  and  there 
fore  more  alluring,  mountain  range. 


VI 
THE  PROSPECTOR 

OLD  Pogosa  was  seated  in  the  shade  of  a  farm-wagon, 
not  far  from  the  trader's  store  at  Washakie,  eating 
a  cracker  and  mumbling  to  herself,  when  a  white  man 
in  miner's  dress  spoke  to  her  in  a  kindly  voice  and  of 
fered  her  an  orange.  She  studied  him  with  a  dim,  shin 
ing,  suspicious  gaze,  but  took  the  orange.  Eugene,  the 
grandson  of  her  niece,  stood  beside  the  stranger,  and  he, 
too,  had  an  orange. 

"Tell  her,"  said  the  white  man,  "that  I  want  to  talk 
with  her  about  old  days ;  that  I  am  a  friend  of  her  people, 
and  that  I  knew  Sitting  Bull  and  Bear  Robe.  They  were 
great  chiefs." 

As  these  words  were  interpreted  to  the  old  witch,  her 
mouth  softened  a  little  and,  raising  her  eyes,  she  studied 
her  visitor  intently.  At  last  she  said:  "Ay,  he  was  a 
great  chief,  Sitting  Bull.  My  cousin.  I  came  to  visit 
Shoshoni  many  moons  ago.  Never  returned  to  my  own 
people." 

To  this  the  miner  replied,  "They  say  your  husband, 
lapi,  was  one  of  the  sheep-eaters  exiled  to  the  moun 
tains?" 

Her  eyes  widened.  Her  gaze  deepened.  She  clipped 
her  forefinger  in  sign  of  agreement.  "It  was  very  cold 
up  there  in  winter.  We  were  often  hungry,  for  the  game 

155 


THEY    OF    THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

had  all  been  driven  to  the  plain  and  we  could  not  follow. 
Many  of  our  children  died.  All  died  but  one." 

The  stranger,  whose  name  was  Wetherell,  responded 
with  a  sigh :  ' '  My  heart  is  heavy  when  I  hear  of  it.  Be 
cause  you  are  old  and  have  not  much  food  I  give  you 
this  money."  And  he  handed  her  a  silver  dollar  and 
walked  away. 

The  next  day,  led  by  Eugene,  Wetherell  and  Kelley, 
his  partner,  again  approached  the  old  Sioux,  this  time 
with  a  generous  gift  of  beef. 

"My  brother,  here,  is  paper-chief,"  he  explained. 
"As  a  friend  of  the  red  people  he  wants  to  put  in  a  book 
all  the  wrongs  that  the  sheep-eaters  suffered." 

In  this  way  the  gold-seekers  proceeded  to  work  upon 
Pogosa's  withered  heart.  Her  mind  was  clouded  with 
age,  but  a  spark  of  her  old-time  cunning  still  dwelt 
there,  and  as  she  came  to  understand  that  the  white 
men  were  eager  to  hear  the  story  of  the  lost  mine  she 
grew  forgetful.  Her  tongue  halted  on  details  of  the 
trail.  Why  should  not  her  tale  produce  other  sides  of 
bacon,  more  oranges,  and  many  yards  of  cloth?  Her 
memory  wabbled  like  her  finger — now  pointing  west, 
now  north.  At  one  time  the  exiles  found  the  gold  in 
the  cabin  in  a  bag — like  shining  sand;  at  another  it  lay 
in  the  sand  like  shining  soldiers'  buttons,  but  always  it 
was  very  beautiful  to  look  upon,  and  always,  she  re 
peated,  the  white  men  fled.  No  one  slew  them.  They 
went  hurriedly,  leaving  all  their  tools. 

"She  knows,"  exulted  Wetherell.  "She  knows,  and 
she's  the  one  living  Indian  who  can  direct  us."  To 
Eugene  he  exclaimed:  "Say  to  her  pretty  soon  she's 
going  to  be  rich — mebbe  go  home  to  Cheyenne  River. 
If  she  shows  us  the  trail  we  will  take  her  to  her  own 
people." 

156 


THE    PROSPECTOR 

Like  a  decrepit  eagle  the  crone  pondered.  Suddenly 
she  spoke,  and  her  speech  was  a  hoarse  chant.  ''You 
are  good  to  me.  The  bones  of  my  children  lie  up  there. 
I  will  go  once  more  before  I  die." 

Kelley  was  quick  to  take  advantage  of  sunset  emo 
tion.  "Tell  her  we  will  be  here  before  sunrise.  Warn 
her  not  to  talk  to  any  one."  And  to  all  this  Eugene 
gave  ready  assent. 

Wether  ell  slept  very  little  that  night,  although  their 
tent  stood  close  beside  the  singing  water  of  the  Little 
Wind.  They  were  several  miles  from  the  fort  and  in  a 
lonely  spot  with  only  one  or  two  Indian  huts  near,  and 
yet  he  had  the  conviction  that  their  plans  and  the  very 
hour  of  their  starting  were  known  to  other  of  the  red 
people.  At  one  moment  he  was  sure  they  were  all 
chuckling  at  the  "foolish  white  men";  at  another  he 
shivered  to  think  how  easy  it  would  be  to  ambush  this 
crazy  expedition  in  some  of  the  deep,  solitary  defiles 
in  those  upper  forests.  "A  regiment  could  be  murdered 
and  hidden  in  some  of  those  savage  glooms,"  said  he 
to  himself. 

Kelley  slept  like  a  top,  but  woke  at  the  first  faint 
dawn,  with  the  precision  of  an  alarm-clock.  In  ten 
minutes  he  had  the  horses  in,  and  was  throwing  the 
saddles  on.  "Roll  out,  Andy,"  he  shouted.  "Here 
comes  Eugene." 

Wetherell  lent  himself  to  the  work  with  suddenly 
developed  enthusiasm,  and  in  half  an  hour  the  little 
train  of  laden  animals  was  in  motion  toward  the  hills. 
Pogosa  was  waiting,  squatted  on  the  ground  at  some 
distance  from  her  tepee.  Slipping  from  his  horse,  he 
helped  her  mount.  She  groaned  a  little  as  she  did  so, 
but  gathered  up  the  reins  like  one  resuming  a  long- 
forgotten  habit.  For  years  she  had  not  ventured  to 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

mount  a  horse,  and  her  withered  knees  were  of  small 
service  in  maintaining  her  seat,  but  she  made  no  com 
plaint. 

Slowly  the  little  train  crawled  up  the  trail,  which 
ran  for  the  most  part  along  the  open  side  of  the  slope, 
in  plain  view  from  below.  At  sunrise  they  were  so 
well  up  the  slope  that  an  observer  from  below  would 
have  had  some  trouble  in  making  out  the  character  of 
the  cavalcade.  At  seven  o'clock  they  entered  the  first 
patch  of  timber  and  were  hidden  from  the  plain. 

On  the  steep  places,  where  the  old  squaw  was  forced 
to  cling  to  her  saddle,  groaning  with  pain,  the  kindly 
Wetherell  walked  beside  her,  easing  her  down  the  banks. 
In  crossing  the  streams  he  helped  her  find  the  shallowest 
fording,  and  in  other  ways  was  singularly  considerate. 
Kelley  couldn't  have  done  this,  but  he  saw  the  value  of  it. 

"It's  a  hard  trip  and  we've  got  to  make  it  as  easy 
for  the  old  bird  as  we  can." 

"She's  human,"  retorted  Wetherell,  "and  this  ride  is 
probably  painful  for  her,  mentally  as  well  as  physically." 

"I  s'pose  it  does  stir  her  up  some,"  responded  Kelley. 
"She  may  balk  any  minute  and  refuse  to  go.  We'd 
better  camp  early." 

A  little  later  Eugene  called  out,  "She" says  set  tepee 
here."  And  Kelley  consented. 

Again  it  was  Wetherell  who  helped  her  from  her  saddle 
and  spread  his  pack  for  her  to  rest  upon.  He  also 
brought  a  blanket  and  covered  her  as  tenderly  as  if  she 
were  his  own  grandmother.  "She's  pretty  near  all  in," 
he  said,  in  palliation  of  this  action.  He  took  a  pleasure 
in  seeing  her  revive  under  the  influence  of  hot  food. 

When  she  began  to  talk,  Eugene  laughingly  explained : 
"She  stuck  on  you.  She  say  you  good  man.  Your 
heart  big  for  old  Injun  woman." 

158 


THE    PROSPECTOR 

Kelley  chuckled.  "Keep  it  up,  Andy,"  he  called 
through  the  tent.  "I  leave  all  that  business  to 
you." 

Pogosa's  face  darkened.  She  understood  the  laugh. 
4 'Send  him  away,"  she  commanded  Eugene,  all  of  which 
made  Kelley  grin  with  pleasure. 

The  whole  enterprise  now  began  to  take  on  poetry 
to  Wetherell.  The  wilderness,  so  big,  so  desolate,  so 
empty  to  him,  was  full  of  memories  to  this  brown  old 
witch.  To  her  the  rushing  stream  sang  long-forgotten 
songs  of  war  and  the  chase.  She  could  hear  in  its  clamor 
the  voices  of  friends  and  lovers.  This  pathway,  so  dim 
and  fluctuating,  so  indefinite  to  the  white  man,  led 
straight  into  the  heroic  past  for  her.  Perhaps  she  was 
treading  it  now,  not  for  the  meat  and  flannel  which 
Kelley  had  promised  her,  but  for  the  pleasure  of  reliv 
ing  the  past.  She  was  young  when  her  husband  was 
banished.  In  these  splendid  solitudes  her  brave  young 
hunter  adventured  day  by  day.  Here  beside  one  of 
these  glorious  streams  her  children  were  born  in  exile; 
here  they  suffered  the  snows  of  winter,  the  pests  of 
summer ;  and  here  they  had  died  one  by  one,  till  only  she 
remained.  Then,  old  and  feeble,  she  had  crawled  back 
into  the  reservation,  defiant  of  Washakie,  seeking  com 
fort  as  a  blind  dog  returns  to  the  fireside  from  which 
he  has  been  cruelly  spurned. 

As  she  slept,  the  men  spread  a  map  on  the  ground,  and 
for  the  hundredth  time  Wetherell  measured  the  blank 
space  lying  between  Bonneville  Basin  and  Fremont's 
Peak  marked  "unexplored,"  and  exclaimed: 

"It's  wonderful  how  a  mountain  country  expands  as 
you  get  into  it.  Don't  look  much  on  the  map,  but,  gee! 
a  fellow  could  spend  ten  years  looking  for  this  mine, 
and  then  be  no  better  off  than  when  he  started," 


THEY    OF    THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

"Yes,"  responded  Kelley,  "it's  certainly  up  to  you 
to  cherish  the  old  lady." 

In  the  morning  Wetherell  dressed  hastily  and  crept 
into  the  little  tent  where  Pogosa  lay.  "How  are  you, 
granny?"  he  asked.  She  only  shook  her  head  and 
groaned. 

"She  say  her  back  broke,"  Eugene  interpreted. 

A  brisk  rubbing  with  a  liniment  which  he  had  brought 
from  his  kit  limbered  the  poor,  abused  loins,  and  at  last 
Pogosa  sat  up.  She  suddenly  caught  Wetherell's  hand 
and  drew  it  to  her  withered  breast. 

"Good  white  man,"  she  cried  out. 

"Tell  her  I'll  make  her  eyes  well,  too,"  he  commanded 
Eugene.  "The  medicine  will  hurt  a  little,  but  it  will 
make  her  eyes  stronger  to  see  the  trail." 

Kelley  could  not  suppress  his  amusement  as  he  watched 
Wetherell's  operations.  "You'll  spoil  gran'ma,"  he 
remarked.  "She'll  be  discontented  with  the  agency 
doctor.  I'm  not  discouragin'  your  massage  operations, 
mind  you,  but  I  can't  help  thinking  that  she'll  want 
clean  towels,  and  an  osteopath  to  stroke  her  back  every 
morning,  when  she  goes  back  to  her  tepee." 

"If  she  only  holds  out  long  enough  to  help  us  to  find 
the  mine  she  can  have  a  trained  nurse,  and  waiting- 
maid  to  friz  her  hair — if  she  wants  it  frizzed." 

"You  don't  mean  to  let  her  in  as  a  partner?" 

"I  certainly  do!  Isn't  she  enduring  the  agonies  for 
us?  I'm  going  to  see  that  she  is  properly  paid  for  it." 

"A  hunk  of  beef  and  plenty  of  blankets  and  flannel  is 
all  she  can  use;  but  first  let's  find  the  mine.  We  can 
quarrel  over  its  division  afterward." 

"I  doubt  if  we  get  her  ahorse  to-day.  She's  pretty 
thoroughly  battered  up." 

"We  must  move,  Andy.  Somebody  may  trail  us  up. 
1 60 


THE    PROSPECTOR 

I  want  to  climb  into  the  next  basin  before  night.  Let 
me  talk  to  her." 

She  flatly  refused  to  move  for  Kelley,  and  Eugene 
said:  "She  too  sick.  Legs  sick,  back  sick,  eyes  sick. 
Go  no  further." 

Kelley  turned  to  Wetherell.  "It's  your  edge,  Andy. 
She's  balked  on  me." 

Wetherell  took  another  tack.  He  told  her  to  rest. 
"By  and  by  I'll  come  and  rub  your  back  again  and  fix 
your  eyes.  To-morrow  you  will  feel  strong  and  well." 
To  this  she  made  no  reply. 

All  the  day  Kelley  kept  his  eyes  on  the  back  trail,  ex 
pecting  each  moment  to  see  some  dusky  trailer  break 
from  the  cover.  As  night  began  to  fall  it  was  Wetherell 
who  brought  a  brand  and  built  a  little  fire  near  the 
door  to  Pogosa's  tent  so  that  the  flame  might  cheer  her, 
and  she  uttered  a  sigh  of  comfort  as  its  yellow  glare 
lighted  her  dark  tepee  walls.  He  brought  her  bacon, 
also,  and  hot  bread  and  steaming  coffee,  not  merely  be 
cause  she  was  useful  as  a  guide,  but  also  because  she  was 
old  and  helpless  and  had  been  lured  out  of  her  own  home 
into  this  gray  and  icy  world  of  cloud. 

"Eddie,"  he  said, as  he  returned  to  his  partner, " we're 
on  a  wild-goose  chase.  The  thing  is  preposterous.  There 
isn't  any  mine— there  can't  be  such  a  mine!" 

"Why  not?    What's  struck  you  now?" 

"  This  country  has  been  traversed  for  a  century.  It  is 
'sheeped'  and  cattle-grazed  and  hunted  and  forest- 
ranged — " 

Kelley  waved  his  hand  out  toward  the  bleak  crags 
which  loomed  dimly  from  amid  the  slashing  shrouds  of 
rain.  "Traversed!  Man,  nobody  ever  does  anything 
more  than  ride  from  one  park  to  another.  The  mine 
is  not  in  a  park.  It's  on  some  of  these  rocky-timbered 

161 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

ridges.  A  thousand  sheep-herders  might  ride  these  trails 
for  a  hundred  years  and  never  see  a  piece  of  pay  quartz. 
It's  a  big  country !  Look  at  it  now !  What  chance  have 
we  without  Pogosa?  Now  here  we  are  on  our  way, 
with  a  sour  old  wench  who  thinks  more  of  a  piece  of 
bread  than  she  does  of  a  hunk  of  ore.  It's  up  to  you, 
Andy — you  and  your  'mash.'" 

"Well,  I've  caught  the  mind-reading  delusion.  I  be 
gin  to  believe  that  I  understand  Pogosa's  reasoning. 
She  is  now  beginning  to  be  eaten  by  remorse.  She  came 
into  this  expedition  for  the  food  and  drink.  She  now 
repents  and  is  about  to  confess  that  she  knows  nothing 
about  the  mine.  She  and  Eugene  have  conspired  against 
us  and  are  'doing'  us — good." 

"Nitsky!  You're  away  off  your  base.  The  fact  is, 
Pogosa  is  a  Sioux.  She  cares  nothing  for  the  Shoshoni, 
and  she  wants  to  realize  on  this  mine.  She  wants  to  go 
back  to  her  people  before  she  dies.  She  means  busi 
ness — don't  you  think  she  don't;  and  if  her  running-gear 
don't  unmesh  to-night  or  to-morrow  she's  going  to  make 
good — that's  my  hunch." 

"  I  hope  you're  right,  but  I  can't  believe  it." 

1  'You  don't  need  to.  You  keep  her  thinking  you're 
the  Sun-god — that's  your  job." 

It  rained  all  that  day,  and  when  night  settled  down  it 
grew  unreasonably  warm  for  that  altitude,  and  down  on 
the  marshes  the  horses  stood,  patiently  enduring  the 
gnats  and  mosquitoes.  They  plagued  Pogosa  so  cruelly 
that  Wetherell  took  his  own  web  of  bobinet  and  made 
a  protecting  cage  for  her  head  and  hands.  Never  be 
fore  had  she  been  shielded  from  the  pests  of  outdoor 
life.  She  laughed  as  she  heard  the  baffled  buzzing  out 
side  her  net,  and,  pointing  her  finger,  addressed  them 
mockingly.  Wetherell  took  the  same  joy  in  this  that 

162 


THE    PROSPECTOR 

a  child  takes  in  the  action  of  a  kitten  dressed  as  a  doll. 
To  Eugene  he  said: 

"You  tell  her  Injun  plenty  fool.  He  don't  know 
enough  to  get  gold  and  buy  mosquito  netting.  If  she 
is  wise  and  shows  me  the  mine  she  will  never  be  bitten 
again.  No  flies.  No  mosquitoes.  Plenty  beef.  Plenty 
butter  and  hot  biscuits.  Plenty  sugar  and  coffee. 
White  man's  own  horse  carry  her  back  to  her  people." 

It  took  some  time  to  make  the  old  woman  under 
stand  this,  and  then  she  replied  briefly,  but  with  vigor, 
and  Eugene  translated  it  thus:  "White  man  all  same  big 
chief.  Go  find  mine,  sure,  for  you.  No  want  other 
white  man  to  have  gold.  All  yours." 

The  morning  broke  tardily.  The  rain  had  ceased,  but 
the  gray  mist  still  hid  the  peaks,  and  now  and  then  the 
pines  shook  down  a  shower  of  drops  upon  the  tent 
cloth  as  if  impatient  of  the  persistent  gathering  of 
moisture.  Otherwise  the  forest  was  as  still  as  if  it  were 
cut  from  bronze. 

Kelley  arose  and,  going  outside,  began  kicking  the 
embers  together.  "Wake  up,  Andy.  It's  a  gray  out 
look  we  have,"  he  announced,  after  a  careful  survey. 
"The  worst  sign  is  this  warmth  and  stillness.  We're 
in  the  heart  of  the  storm,  and  the  mosquitoes  are 
hellish." 

As  Wetherell  was  creeping  from  the  tent  door  one 
of  the  pines  quivered  and  sent  down  a  handful  of  drops, 
squarely  soaking  the  back  of  his  neck,  and  a  huge  mos 
quito  stuck  savagely  to  the  end  of  his  nose.  He  was  not 
in  the  best  of  humor  as  he  straightened  up. 

"I  can  stand  cold  and  snow,  or  wet  and  cold,  but  this 
hot,  sticky,  dark  weather  irritates  me.  Let's  climb  high 
and  see  if  we  can't  reach  the  frost-line." 

"We'll  be  frosty  enough  when  this  storm  passes," 
163 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

Kelley  said,  comfortingly.     Then  in  a  note  of  astonish 
ment  and  surprise,  "Well,  look  at  that!" 

Wetherell  looked  where  he  pointed,  and  beheld  Pogosa 
squatting  before  a  meager  fire  at  her  tent  door,  her  head 
carefully  draped  in  her  bobinet.  He  forgot  his  own 
lumps  and  bumps,  and  laughed.  ''So  doth  the  white 
man's  civilization  creep  upon  and  subdue  the  Amerind, 
destroying  his  robust  contempt  for  the  elements  and 
making  of  him  a  Sybarite." 

Eugene  appeared,  grinning  ruefully.  ''Heap  dam' 
moskeets.  Drink  my  blood  all  night." 

"I  reckon  you  got  gran'ma's  share,"  said  Kelley. 

Pogosa  met  Wetherell's  glance  with  an  exultant  smile 
and  pointed  at  the  net  as  if  to  say:  "See,  I  am  safe. 
The  angry  brutes  cannot  touch  me." 

"The  old  girl  is  on  her  taps  this  morning.  She  de 
serves  a  reward.  Wait  a  jiffy.  There" — and  Kelley 
uncorked  a  flask  and  poured  a  wee  drop  of  an  amber- 
colored  liquid  into  the  cup  of  coffee  which  Wetherell 
was  about  to  take  to  her — "say  nothing  and  see  what 
happens." 

She  ate  a  rousing  breakfast  and  was  especially  pleased 
with  the  coffee.  Kelley  repeated  the  dose,  and  she, 
much  invigorated,  ordered  Eugene  to  bring  her  pony 
to  her.  This  tickled  Kelley  mightily. 

"You  see  how  it  is!  She's  already  the  millionairess. 
Who  ever  heard  of  an  Injun  getting  up  a  horse  for  an 
old  squaw?  Look  at  Eugene!" 

Eugene  was  indeed  in  open  rebellion,  and  Wetherell, 
not  caring  to  have  trouble  with  him,  went  down  and 
brought  up  the  pony  himself.  He  also  gave  the  old 
woman  his  slicker  and  insisted  on  her  wearing  it,  whereat 
Eugene  wondered  again. 

The  rain  was  beginning  as  they  took  their  way  over 
164 


THE    PROSPECTOR 

the  meadow,  and  Wetherell  was  near  to  being  bogged 
the  first  crack  out  of  the  box.  "  Do  we  go  up  that  cliff?" 
he  asked. 

Pogosa  waved  her  forefinger  back  and  forth  as  though 
tracing  the  doublings  of  the  trail. 

Kelley  scanned  the  wall  narrowly.  "I  don't  quite 
see  it,"  he  remarked,  openly,  "but  I  reckon  I  can  find 
it,"  and  he  spurred  his  horse  to  the  front. 

"No!  No!"  screamed  Pogosa  in  a  sudden  fury,  her 
voice  shrill  and  nasal.  Kelley  stopped,  and  she  mo 
tioned  Wetherell  to  his  place  in  the  lead. 

With  a  comical  look  in  his  eyes  the  trailer  fell  back. 
"  'Pears  like  I  ain't  good  enough  to  precede  her  Majesty. 
Go  ahead,  Andy." 

Wetherell,  in  much  doubt  of  his  ability  to  scale  that 
cliff,  started  forth.  The  old  trail  could  be  seen  dimly, 
and  also  the  recent  tracks  of  three  horses.  They  were 
not  precisely  fresh,  but  they  gave  some  uneasiness. 

"Who  made  'em,  Eugene,  and  when?"  he  asked. 

"One  man  riding — white  man,"  announced  Eugene. 
"Two  pack-horse — very  light  pack — made — mebbe  so — 
three  days  ago." 

"The  forest-ranger  from  the  other  side,  possibly." 

Wetherell,  by  watching  the  hoof -marks,  by  studying 
the  conformation  of  the  cliff  before  him,  and  by  glanc 
ing  back  now  and  again  at  Pogosa,  contrived  to  find  the 
way.  Slowly  and  for  several  hours  they  climbed  this 
vast  dike.  It  was  nearly  eleven  thousand  feet  above 
the  sea  here,  and  Kelley  himself  breathed  with  effort 
as  he  climbed. 

"I  begin  to  see  why  people  don't  use  this  trail  much," 
he  said,  as  they  stopped  to  rest  on  one  of  the  broad 
shelves.  "I'm  beginning  to  wonder  how  we're  going 
to  pack  our  ore  to  market  over  this  road. 

165 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

"It  will  take  mighty  rich  ore  to  pay  its  own  freight," 
responded  Wetherell. 

Pogosa  seemed  strangely  excited.  Her  eyes  were 
gleaming,  her  face  working  with  emotion. 

"See  the  old  girl!"  said  Kelley.  "We  must  be  hot 
on  the  trail  of  the  mine.  It  don't  look  like  mineral 
formation,  but  gold  is  where  you  find  it." 

"Go  on,"  signed  Pogosa. 

The  way  seemed  interminable,  and  at  times  Wetherell 
despaired  of  getting  his  withered  commander  into  the 
park  which  he  was  sure  lay  above  this  dike.  At  noon 
they  halted  long  enough  to  make  coffee.  Kelley  flav 
ored  it  as  before,  and  Pogosa  was  ready  to  go  on  an  hour 
later. 

As  they  rose  above  the  dike  and  Bonneville's  Peak 
came  into  view  a  low  humming  sound  startled  the 
hunters.  It  came  from  Pogosa.  With  eyes  lit  by  the 
reviving  fires  of  memory,  she  was  chanting  a  hoarse 
song.  She  seemed  to  have  thrown  off  half  the  burden 
of  her  years.  Her  voice  gradually  rose  till  her  weird 
improvisation  put  a  shiver  into  Wetherell's  heart.  She 
had  forgotten  the  present;  and  with  hands  resting  on 
the  pommel  of  her  saddle,  with  dim  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
valley,  was  reliving  the  past. 

"She  singing  old  hunting  song,"  Eugene  explained. 
"Many  years  ago  she  sing  it.  This  heap  fine  hunting- 
ground  then.  Elk,  big-horn,  bear.  All  fine  things  in 
summer.  Winter  nothing  but  big-horn.  Sheep-eaters 
live  here  many  summers.  Pogos'  young  and  happy  then. 
Now  she  is  old  and  lonesome.  People  all  gone.  Purty 
soon  she  die.  So  she  say." 

Even  the  unimaginative  mind  of  Tall  Ed  Kelley 
thrilled  to  the  tragic  significance  of  this  survivor  of  a 
dying  race  chanting  her  solitary  song.  Her  memory 

166 


THE    PROSPECTOR 

was  quickening  under  the  touch  of  these  cliffs  and  the 
sound  of  these  streams.  She  was  retracing  the  steps  of 
her  youth. 

Kelley  interpreted  it  differently.  "She's  close  to  it," 
he  called.  "It's  here  in  this  valley,  in  some  of  these 
ridges." 

Resolutely,  unhesitatingly,  Pogosa  rode  down  the  first 
stream  which  ran  to  the  north,  making  directly  for  a  low 
hill  on  which  could  be  discerned  a  low  comb  of  deflected 
rocks  of  a  dark  color.  At  last,  riding  up  the  ledge,  she 
slipped  from  her  horse  and,  tottering  forward,  fell  face 
downward  on  the  grass  beside  an  upturned  giant  slab 
of  gray  stone. 

The  men  stared  in  wonder,  searching  the  ground  for 
evidence  of  mineral.  None  could  be  seen.  Suddenly 
lifting  her  head,  the  crone  began  to  sing  again,  uttering 
a  heart-shaking  wail  which  poured  from  her  quivering 
lips  like  the  cry  of  the  forsaken.  The  sight  of  her  with 
ered  hands  strained  together  and  the  tears  in  her  sunken 
cheeks  went  to  the  soul.  The  desolate  rocks,  the  falling 
rain,  the  wild  and  monstrous  cliffs,  the  encircling  moun 
tains,  all  lent'  irresistible  power  to  her  grief.  She  seemed 
the  minstrel  of  her  race  mourning  for  a  vanished  world. 

"Come  away,"  Eugene  urged  with  a  delicacy  which 
sprang  from  awe.  "Her  husband  buried  there." 

Deeply  touched  to  know  that  her  grief  was  personal, 
and  filled,  too,  with  a  kind  of  helpless  amazement  at  this 
emotional  outbreak,  the  gold-seekers  withdrew  down 
the  slope,  followed  by  the  riderless  pony,  leaving  the 
old  woman  crouched  close  against  the  sepulcher  of  her 
dead,  pouring  forth  the  sobbing  wail  of  her  song. 

"This  looks  like  the  end  of  our  mine,"  said  Kelley, 
gloomily.     "I  begin  to  think  that  the  old  witch  led  us 
up  here  just  for  the  sake  of  visiting  that  grave." 
12  I67 


THEY   OF    THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

"It  looks  that  way,"  responded  Wetherell,  "but  what 
can  we  do?  You  can't  beat  her,  and  we've  done  all  we 
could  to  bribe  her." 

Eugene  advised:  "You  wait.  Bimeby  she  got  done 
cryin'.  To-morrow  she  got  cold — want  meat,  coffee — 
plenty  bad.  Then  we  go  get  her." 

They  went  into  camp  not  far  away  in  the  edge  of 
a  thicket  of  scraggly  wind-dwarfed  pines,  and  put  up 
their  tents  for  the  night. 

"Wouldn't  it  put  a  cramp  into  you,"  began  Kelley, 
as  they  stood  beside  their  fire,  "to  think  that  this  old 
relict  has  actually  led  us  all  the  way  up  here  in  order  to 
water  the  grave  of  a  sweetheart  who  died  forty  years 
ago?" 

"It  shows  how  human  she  is." 

"Human!  She's  superhuman.  She's  crazy,  that's 
what  she  is." 

"It  is  all  very  wonderful  to  me,  but  I'm  worried  about 
her.  She  mustn't  stay  out  there  in  this  rain.  It's  going 
to  turn  cold.  See  that  streak  in  the  west?" 

As  Wetherell  left  the  camp-fire  and  began  to  climb 
back  toward  the  comb  of  rocks  he  felt  not  merely  the 
sheer  immensity  of  this  granite  basin,  but  the  loneliness, 
its  almost  insupportable  silence  and  emptiness.  With 
the  feeling  of  one  who  intrudes  he  called  to  the  old 
woman.  He  stooped  and  put  his  arm  about  her. 
"Come,"  he  said.  "You  will  die  here.  Come  to  the 
fire." 

She  suffered  him  to  lead  her  away,  but  her  head  hung 
on  her  breast,  her  arms  were  limp. 

Back  at  the  camp-fire,  after  seeing  that  Pogosa  had 
been  properly  taken  care  of,  the  men  faced  each  other 
in  gloomy  silence. 

"Right  here  we  take  our  medicine,  partner,"  remarked 
168 


THE    PROSPECTOR 

Kelley.  "Here  we  put  a  dot  and  double  the  line.  I'd 
like  to  break  over  that  divide  and  see  how  it  looks  in 
there,  but  our  lady  friend  seems  indisposed,  and  I  guess 
we'll  just  toast  our  knees  and  think  where  we  missed  it." 

"After  all,"  said  Wetherell,  soothingly,  "this  morning 
may  be  merely  incidental.  Let  us  be  patient.  She  may 
recover."  And  at  dark  he  carried  some  hot  drink  over 
to  her  tepee,  but  found  her  sleeping,  and  decided  not 
to  awaken  her. 

Back  at  their  fire,,  as  the  night  deepened,  the  men 
lighted  their  pipes,  and  with  blankets  at  their  backs 
huddled  close  about  it.  An  imperious  voice  broke  from 
Pogosa's  tent.  Wetherell  looked  around  at  Eugene. 

"Did  you  speak?"  he  asked. 

Eugene  protested.     "No.     Pogosa  talk." 

"It  sounded  like  a  chief's  voice,"  Kelley  began.  "A 
vigorous  voice." 

Eugene,  trembling  like  a  scared  puppy,  crept  close 
to  Wetherell.  His  voice  was  a  mere  whisper.  "That 
no  Pogos' — that  Injun  spirit  talking." 

Kelley  was  amused.  "A  spirit,  eh?  What  does  this 
spirit  Injun  say?" 

"Say,  'White  man  with  red  beard  listen — come  closer 
and  listen' — " 

"That's  you,  Andy.  Draw  close.  Your  side  partner 
has  something  to  say." 

Wetherell,  alarmed  by  this  delirium  of  his  patient, 
rose  to  his  feet,  and  as  he  did  so  her  harsh  voice  uttered 
a  short  phrase  which  stiffened  Eugene  with  fright.  He 
left  his  place  and  sidled  after  Wetherell. 

"She  say  me,  Eugene,  come  talk  for  you." 

"Very  true.  You'll  need  him.  This  may  be  a  dying 
confession,"  argued  Kelley. 

"You  go  ahead  in  tepee,"  Eugene  urged.  "Me  sit 
169 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

outside.  Pogos'  medicine  now.  See  'urn  vision.  Spirits 
talk  to  her." 

As  he  peered  in  at  the  tepee  door  Wetherell  perceived 
Pogosa  dimly.  She  was  sitting  erect  in  her  bed.  Her 
eyes  were  wide,  the  pose  of  her  head  erect  and  vigorous. 
She  appeared  a  span  taller,  and  when  she  spoke  her  voice 
seemed  to  issue  from  a  deep  and  powerful  chest. 

With  Eugene  as  a  scared  interpreter,  Pogosa  said: 
"Here,  now  where  we  are  encamped.,  a  battle  took  place 
many  winters  ago,  and  some  of  the  exiles  were  slain. 
One  of  these  was  lapi,  the  husband  of  Pogosa.  He  it 
was  who  could  not  speak  Shoshoni." 

Impatiently  Kelley  asked,  "Will  she  be  able  to  show 
us  the  mine?" 

"She  will  try,  but  she  is  old  and  her  mind  is  misty. 
She  say  she  is  grateful  to  you,  Red  Beard,  and  will  give 
the  gold  to  you.  She  asks  that  you  take  her  back  to  her 
own  people  after  you  find  the  mine." 

"Is  the  mine  far  from  here?"  asked  Wetherell,  gently. 

"No,  but  it  is  very  hard  to  find." 

"Can't  you  trace  the  trail  on  a  piece  of  paper  for  me?" 
he  inquired. 

"No,  Pogosa  cannot  make  the  road.  She  can  only 
tell  you.  Send  the  other  white  man  away." 

"Vamoose!"  Wetherell  called  with  a  note  of  triumph 
in  his  voice,  and  Tall  Ed  faded  away. 

With  faltering  voice  Pogosa  began  the  all-important 
part  of  her  tale:  "The  mine  is  on  the  head  of  the  Wind 
River.  Not  far,  but  the  way  is  very  hard.  Pogosa  will 
not  be  able  to  lead  you.  From  where  we  are  you  cross 
the  valley  to  the  mountain.  You  turn  to  your  right  and 
descend  to  a  small  lake  lying  under  a  bank  of  snow. 
This  bank  is  held  up  by  a  row  of  black  rocks.  Below 
this  lake  is  a  stream  and  a  long  hill  of  round  stones, 

170 


THE    PROSPECTOR 

all  mixed  together.     On  the  west  side  of  this  ridge,  just 
above  another  small  lake,  you  will  find  the  mine." 

"Can  it  be  approached  from  below ?" 

"No,  a  great  canon  and  many  cliffs  are  there — " 
Her  voice  ceased  abruptly.  As  suddenly  as  if  life  had 
been  instantly  withdrawn,  she  fell  back  upon  her  bed, 
and  Eugene,  released  from  the  grasp  of  her  hand,  fled  to 
Kelley,  leaving  Wetherell  alone  with  the  mystery. 

"She  seems  to  have  dropped  into  a  sort  of  trance," 
he  said  to  Kelley,  as  he  came  back  to  the  camp-fire. 

"Have  you  faith  enough  to  follow  those  directions?" 
asked  his  partner. 

"I  certainly  have." 

Kelley  laughed.  "She  may  have  a  different  set  of 
directions  to-morrow  night.  What  to  you  say,  Eugene? 
Pogos'  all  same  fraud?" 

Eugene,  cowering  close  to  the  fire,  needed  not  speech 
to  make  evident  his  awe  of  the  battle-field.  "Injun 
spirits  all  round,"  he  whispered.  "Hear  'em?  They 
cry  to  Pogos'."  He  lifted  a  hand  in  warning. 

"It's  only  the  wind  in  the  dead  pines,"  said  Kelley. 

"Plenty  Injun  spirits.     They  cry!"  persisted  Eugene. 

"There  speaks  the  primitive  man,"  remarked  Weth 
erell.  "Our  ancestors  in  Ireland  or  Wales  or  Scotland 
all  had  the  same  awe  and  wonder  of  the  dark — just  as 
the  negroes  in  the  South  believe  that  on  certain  nights 
the  dead  soldiers  of  Lee  and  Grant  rise  and  march  again." 

Kelley  yawned.  "Let's  turn  in  and  give  the  witches 
full  swing.  It's  certainly  their  kind  of  a  night." 

Eugene  spoke  up.  "Me  sleep  in  your  tepee.  Pogos' 
scare  me  plenty  hard." 

Ridicule  could  not  affect  him,  and  out  of  pity  for  his 
suffering  Wetherell  invited  him  to  make  down  his  bed 
in  the  doorway  of  his  own  little  tent. 

171 


THEY    OF    THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

"  I  hope  gran'ma  won't  have  another  fit  in  the  middle 
of  the  night,"  said  Kelley,  sleepily.  "If  she  does,  you 
can  interview  her  alone.  I'm  dead  to  the  world  till 
dawn." 

Nothing  happened  after  this  save  that  an  occasional 
nervous  chill  overcame  Eugene  and  caused  him  to  call 
out,  "What's  that?"  in  a  suppressed  tone.  "You  hear 
'em  voice?"  he  asked  several  times;  to  all  of  which 
Wetherell  replied,  "It  is  the  wind.  Lie  down;  it  is  only 
the  wind." 

Musing  upon  the  singular  business  in  the  deep  of  the 
night,  Wetherell  concluded  that  Pogosa,  in  a  moment  of 
emotional  exaltation,  and  foreseeing  her  inability  to 
guide  him  in  person,  had  taken  this  method  of  telling 
him  truly  where  the  mine  lay. 

A  mutter  of  voices  in  Pogosa's  tepee  interrupted  his 
thought.  "She  is  delirious  again,"  he  thought,  but 
the  cold  nipped,  and  he  dreaded  rising  and  dressing.  As 
he  hesitated  he  thought  he  could  distinguish  two  voices. 
Shaking  Eugene,  he  whispered,  "Listen,  Eugene,  tell 
me  what  is  going  on  in  Pogosa's  tent." 

The  half-breed  needed  no  awakening.  "She  speak 
Sioux.  I  no  speak  Sioux.  Some  Sioux  man's  talk  with 
her.  Mebbe  so  her  husband." 

Wetherell  smiled  and  snuggled  down  in  his  bed.  "All 
right,  Eugene.  If  lapi  is  there  he  will  take  care  of  her. 
Good  night." 

Morning  broke  gloriously  clear,  crisp,  and  frosty.  The 
insects  were  inert.  The  air  had  lost  its  heat  and  murk. 
The  sun  struck  upon  the  sides  of  the  tepees  with  cheerful 
glow,  and  all  was  buoyant,  normal,  and  bracing  as  the 
partners  arose. 

Hurrying  to  Pogosa's  tepee,  Wetherell  peeped  in.  "I 
172 


THE    PROSPECTOR 

wonder  if  she  remembers  her  performance?"  he  asked 
himself,  but  could  not  determine,  since  she  refused  to 
answer  Eugene  when  he  questioned  her.  She  took  the 
food  which  Wetherell  gave  her,  but  did  not  eat  or  drink. 
Slowly  she  rose  and  hobbled  away  over  the  frosty  grass 
toward  the  grave  of  lapi. 

"That's  a  bad  sign,"  observed  Kelley.  "What's  she 
going  to  do  now,  Eugene?" 

"She's  goin'  put  meat  by  stone.  Mebbe  so  Injun 
spirits  come  eat." 

"Well,  she'd  better  absorb  some  of  the  grub  herself." 

"I  think  it's  a  beautiful  act,"  professed  Wetherell, 
lifting  his  field-glass  to  study  her  motions.  ' '  She's  happy 
now.  She  and  her  dead  sweetheart  are  together  again." 

"I  know  lapi  once,"  Eugene  volunteered.  "He  big 
man,  very  strong.  Good  rider.  One  spring  all  people 
hungry.  No  game.  Ponies  weak.  lapi  say  go  kill 
sheep.  Washakie  hear  of  killing  sheep.  Send  warriors, 
lapi  here.  Make  battle.  Kill  mebbe  so  four,  six  Injun. 
Kill  lapi.  Washakie  sorry  now.  His  spirit  cry  in  trees 
last  night." 

"Better  let  Pogosa  alone  for  the  day.  The  sun  is 
warming  the  rocks.  She  is  no  longer  cold.  We  can 
leave  our  camp  here  and  scout  around  on  our  own 
account,  returning  this  afternoon." 

They  rode  across  the  valley  in  the  direction  indicated 
by  the  Voice.  It  was  a  bewildering  maze  into  which  the 
prospector  must  descend  in  search  of  the  gold  which  is 
marked  in  yellow  letters  on  some  maps  of  the  state. 
Several  times  did  Wetherell  drop  into  the  basins,  search 
ing  in  vain  for  the  small  lake  and  the  black-walled  bank 
of  snow,  but  at  last  Eugene's  eye  detected  faint  indica 
tions  of  a  trail. 

"We've  struck  the  right   road  this  time,"  exulted 


THEY   OF    THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

Wetherell.  "Here  is  the  wall  of  black  rocks."  There 
was  no  snow,  but  he  argued  that,  the  season  having  been 
extraordinarily  warm  and  wet,  this  landmark  had  tem 
porarily  disappeared. 

"I  am  sure  this  is  the  lake  and  stream,"  declared 
Wetherell.  "See  where  the  snow  has  lain." 

"How  far  down  do  you  figure  the  mine  was?" 

"Some  miles  below,  near  a  second  lake.  I'm  afraid 
we  can't  make  it  this  trip.  It  will  be  dark  by  the  time 
we  reach  camp.  We'll  just  mark  the  spot  and  come 
back  to-morrow." 

Kelley  was  for  pushing  on.  "What  matter  if  we 
don't  get  back?" 

"I'm  thinking  of  Pogosa — " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "There's  grub  and  shel 
ter  handy.  She  can  come  down  any  time  and  feed." 

"Yes,  but  I  hate  to  think  of  her  all  alone.  She  may 
be  worse." 

"Send  Eugene  back.    We  don't  need  him  now." 

Wetherell  was  almost  as  eager  to  go  on  as  Kelley,  but 
could  not  banish  the  pathetic  figure  of  Pogosa  so  easily. 
Now  that  all  signs  pointed  to  the  actual  mine,  his  blood 
was  fired  with  passion  for  the  gold. 

"Eugene,  go  back  and  wait  for  us.  See  that  Pogosa 
is  comfortable.  We'll  return  by  dark. ' ' 

The  word  "dark"  sent  a  shiver  through  Eugene.  He 
shook  his  head.  "No.  I'm  afraid.  Spirits  come 
again." 

"Come  on,"  said  Kelley.  "You  can't  make  him  do 
that.  If  we  hurry  we  can  get  down  to  the  other  lake  and 
back  by  sunset.  The  squaw  will  take  care  of  herself. 
She's  used  to  being  alone — besides,  the  spirits  are  with 
her." 

With  the  hope  that  it  was  not  far,  Wetherell  yielded 
J74 


THE    PROSPECTOR 

and  set  off  down  the  slope,  following  the  bank  of  the 
stream.  Soon  the  other  lake  could  be  seen  not  far  below 
them,  and,  slipping,  sliding  amid  a  cascade  of  pebbles, 
the  gold-seekers,  now  glowing  with  certainty  of  success, 
plunged  straight  toward  the  pool.  Two  or  three  times 
this  precipitous  method  of  descent  led  them  into  blind 
alleys  from  which  they  were  obliged  to  climb,  but  at 
last,  just  as  the  sun  went  behind  the  imperial  peak,  they 
came  out  upon  the  shore  of  the  little  tarn  which  lay 
shallowly  over  a  perfectly  flat  floor  of  cream-colored 
sand. 

"Here  we  are,"  called  Kelley.  "Now  if  your  ghost 
proves  a  liar,  Pogosa  must  answer  for  it.  Here  is  the 
rocky  ridge  on  the  east — ' 

"And  here  is  trail,"  called  Eugene,  pointing  to  a  faint 
line  leading  straight  into  the  pines. 

Wetherell  spurred  his  horse  into  this  trail,  and  in  less 
than  five  minutes  came  upon  the  mine.  It  was  not  a 
shining  thing  to  look  at,  so  he  did  not  shout.  It  was 
merely  a  cavernous  opening  in  a  high  ledge  of  dark  rock. 
On  one  side  stood  the  sunken  and  decaying  walls  of  a 
small  log  hut.  The  roof  had  fallen  in,  and  vines  filled 
the  interior.  In  front  of  the  door  and  all  about,  lumps 
of  reddish,  rusty-looking  rock  were  scattered.  A  big 
stone  hollowed  in  the  middle  showed  that  it  had  been 
used  as  a  mortar  for  crushing  the  ore.  The  tunnel  itself 
was  irregular  in  shape  and  almost  high  enough  to  admit 
a  horse.  It  dipped  slightly  from  the  threshold. 

Tall  Ed  spoke  first,  in  a  tone  of  suppressed  excite 
ment.  "Well,  let's  see  what  she's  like." 

"I  trust  Pogosa.  Up  goes  our  poster,"  replied 
Wetherell. 

"All  right.  You  put  up  the  sign  while  I  examine  this 
ore," 

IW 


THEY   OF    THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

With  his  hatchet  Wetherell  set  to  work  hewing  a 
square  face  on  a  tree.  He  was  putting  the  first  tack  in 
his  placard  when  Kelley  walked  over  toward  him,,  and 
with  exaggeratedly  quiet  voice  said: 

"Just  look  at  that,  will  you?" 

Wetherell  took  the  lump  of  ore  and  thrilled  to  the  sight. 
It  needed  no  expert  to  discern  the  free  gold  which  lay 
in  thin  scales  and  sparkling  lumps  all  through  the  rock. 

"I  want  to  yell,"  said  Kelley,  and  his  voice  trembled. 

"Don't  do  it!"  said  Wetherell.  "Let's  hurry  back 
to  camp  and  move  down  here.  I  won't  feel  safe  till 
we  do." 

"I  don't  leave  this  place  to-night,  Andy.  You  and 
Eugene  go  back  to  camp.  I'll  stay  here  and  hold  down 
the  find." 

Wetherell,  tremulous  with  excitement  and  weak  in  the 
knees,  remounted  his  horse  and  set  off  for  camp.  It  was 
a  long  climb,  and  the  latter  part  of  it  tedious  by  reason  of 
the  growing  darkness  and  the  weariness  of  the  horses. 
Wetherell's  pony  would  not  lead  and  was  fairly  at  the 
end  of  his  powers,  but  at  last  they  reached  their  camping- 
place.  Wetherell's  first  thought  was  of  Pogosa.  She 
was  nowhere  in  sight  and  her  tepee  was  empty. 

"She  on  hill,"  declared  Eugene.  "Lying  down  on 
stone.  Injun  cry  there  three  days." 

"The  poor  old  thing!  She'll  be  famished  and  chilled 
to  the  bone.  It's  a  shame,  our  leaving  her  alone  this 
way.  But  that's  the  way  of  the  man  in  love  with  gold. 
Greed  destroys  all  that  is  tender  and  loyal  in  a  man.  I 
am  going  right  up  and  bring  her  down.  Eugene,  you 
start  a  fire  and  put  some  coffee  on  to  boil." 

With  a  heart  full  of  pity  the  repentant  gold-seeker 
hurried  toward  the  cairn.  The  crumpled  little  figure,  so 
tragic  in  its  loneliness  and  helpless  grief,  was  lying  where 

176 


THE    PROSPECTOR 

he  had  left  it.  She  did  not  stir  at  the  sound  of  his  foot 
steps,  nor  when  he  laid  his  hand  softly  on  her  shoulder. 

"Come,  Pogosa,"  he  said,  with  gentle  authority. 
"Come,  coffee,  fire  waiting.  We  found  the  mine. 
You're  rich.  You  shall  go  back  to  your  people.  Come !" 

Something  in  the  feel  of  her  shoulder,  in  the  unyielding 
rigidity  of  her  pose,  startled  and  stilled  him.  He  shook 
her  questioningly.  She  was  stark  as  stone.  Her  body 
had  been  cold  for  many  hours.  Her  spirit  was  with  lapi. 


THE  OUTLAW 

— still  seeks  sanctuary  in  the  green 
timber,  finding  the  storms  of  the 
granite  peaks  less  to  be  feared  than 
the  fury  of  his  neighbors. 


VII 
THE    OUTLAW 


FREEMAN  WARD,  geologist  for  the  government, 
was  not  altogether  easy  in  his  mind  as  he  led  his 
little  pack-train  out  of  Pinedale,  a  frontier  settlement  on 
the  western  slope  of  the  Rocky  Mountain  divide,  for  he 
had  permitted  the  girl  of  his  deepest  interest  to  accom 
pany  him  on  his  expedition. 

Alice  Mansfield,  accustomed  to  having  her  way,  and 
in  this  case  presuming  upon  Ward's  weakness,  insisted 
on  going.  Outwardly  he  had  argued  against  it,  making 
much  of  the  possible  storms,  of  the  rough  trails,  of 
the  cold  and  dampness.  But  she  argued  that  she  was 
quite  as  able  to  go  as  Mrs.  Adams,  the  wife  of  the 
botanist  of  the  expedition.  So  Ward  had  yielded,  and 
here  these  women  were  forming  part  of  a  cavalcade 
which  was  headed  for  Frdmont  Peak,  concerning  whose 
height  and  formation  the  leader  wished  to  inform  him 
self.  Alice  was,  however,  a  bit  dashed  by  Ward's  change 
of  manner  as  he  laid  upon  his  train  his  final  instructions. 

"There  is  to  be  no  skylarking,"  he  said,  "and  no 
"back-tracking.  Each  one  is  to  exercise  great  care. 
We  cannot  afford  to  lose  a  horse  nor  waste  our  pro 
visions.  This  is  not  a  picnic  excursion,  but  a  serious 

181 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

government  enterprise.     I  cannot  turn  back  because  of 
any  discomfort  you  may  encounter  in  camp." 

"I  am  ready  for  what  comes,"  Alice  answered,  smil 
ingly. 

But  she  rode  for  the  rest  of  the  day  remarkably  silent. 
There  had  been  times  when  she  was  certain  that  Ward 
cared  a  great  deal  for  her — not  in  the  impersonal  way 
indicated  by  his  reprimand — but  in  the  way  of  a  lover, 
and  she  was  very  fond  of  him,  had  indeed  looked  forward 
to  this  trip  in  his  company  as  one  sure  to  yield  hours  of 
delightful  intimacy.  On  the  train  he  had  been  very  de 
voted,  "almost  lover-like,"  Peggy  Adams  insisted.  But 
now  she  was  dismayed  by  his  tone  of  military  command. 

Their  first  day's  march  brought  them  to  a  beautiful 
water  called  Heart  Lake,  which  shone  dark  and  deep 
amid  its  martial  firs  at  the  head  of  one  of  the  streams 
which  descended  into  the  East  Fork,  and  there  the  guides 
advised  a  camp.  They  were  now  above  the  hunters, 
almost  above  the  game,  in  a  region  "delightfully  pri 
meval,"  as  the  women  put  it,  and  very  beautiful  and 
peaceful. 

After  the  tents  were  in  order  and  the  supper  eaten, 
Alice,  having  tuned  up  her  little  metal  banjo,  began  to 
twitter  tender  melodies  (to  the  moon,  of  course),  and 
the  long  face  of  the  man  of  science  broadened  and 
he  seemed  less  concerned  about  rocks  and  fauna  and 
flora. 

The  camp  was  maintained  at  Heart  Lake  for  a  day 
while  Ward  and  his  men  explored  the  various  gorges 
in  order  to  discover  a  way  into  Blizzard  Basin,  which 
was  their  goal.  They  returned  to  camp  each  time  more 
and  more  troubled  about  the  question  of  taking  the 
women  over  the  divide  into  the  "rough  country"  which 
lay  to  the  north. 

182 


THE   OUTLAW 

"It  is  a  totally  different  world,"  Adams  explained  to 
his  wife.  "It  is  colder  and  stormier  over  there.  The 
forest  on  the  north  slopes  is  full  of  down-timber  and 
the  cliffs  are  stupendous.  I  wish  you  girls  were  back 
in  the  settlement,"  and  in  this  wish  Ward  heartily 
joined. 

However,  the  more  they  talked  the  more  determined 
the  women  were  to  go. 

It  was  like  a  May  day  the  following  noon  as  they  left 
timber-line  and,  following  the  row  of  tiny  monuments 
set  up  by  the  foresters,  entered  upon  the  wide  and  un 
dulating  stretch  of  low  edges  which  led  to  the  summit. 
The  air  was  clear  and  the  verdureless  shapes  of  the 
monstrous  peaks  stood  sharp  as  steel  against  the  sky. 
The  tender  grass  was  filled  with  minute  glistening  flowers. 
The  wind  was  gentle,  sweet,  moist,  and  cool. 

"Pooh!"  said  Alice,  "this  is  absurdly  easy.  Free 
man  has  been  telling  us  dreadful  tales  all  along  just  to 
be  rid  of  us." 

But  she  began  to  admit  that  her  escort  of  four  strong 
men  was  a  comfort,  as  the  guide  explained  that  this 
"rough  country"  had  long  been  known  as  the  retreat 
of  cattle-thieves  and  outlaws. 

"  Do  you  think  there  are  any  such  men  in  here  now?" 
asked  Mrs.  Adams. 

"  Undoubtedly,"  Ward  said;  "but  I  don't  think,  from 
the  condition  of  this  trail,  that  they  come  in  on  this  side 
of  the  range.  I  suspect  it's  too  lonely  even  for  a  cattle- 
thief." 

They  unsaddled  that  night  on  the  bank  of  a  stream 
near  a  small  meadow,  and  around  the  camp-fire  discussed 
the  trail  which  they  were  to  take  next  day.  The  guides 
agreed  that  it  was  "a  holy  terror,"  which  made  Alice  the 
more  eager  to  traverse  it. 
13  183 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

"I  like  trails  that  make  men  quake.  I  welcome  ad 
venture — that's  what  I  came  for,"  she  said. 

Early  the  next  forenoon,  as  they  were  descending  the 
steep  north-slope  trail,  Alice  gave  out  a  cry  of  pain,  and 
Adams  called  to  Ward: 

"  Hold  on!  Allie's  horse  is  down." 

Ward  was  not  surprised.  He  rode  in  continual  ex 
pectation  of  trouble.  She  was  forever  trying  short  cuts 
and  getting  snared  in  the  fallen  logs.  Once  she  had 
been  scraped  from  her  saddle  by  an  overhanging  bough, 
and  now,  in  attempting  to  find  an  easier  path  down  a 
slippery  ridge,  her  horse  had  fallen  with  her.  Ward 
was  ungracious  enough  to  say: 

"Precisely  what  I've  warned  her  against,"  but  he 
hurried  to  her  relief,  nevertheless. 

"Are  you  badly  huit?"  he  asked,  as  she  stood  before 
him,  striving  to  keep  back  her  tears  of  pain. 

"Oh  no,  not  at  all  badly.  My  foot  was  jammed  a 
little.  Please  help  me  on  to  my  horse;  I'll  be  all  right 
in  a  minute." 

She  put  so  good  a  face  on  her  accident  that  he  helped 
her  into  her  saddle  and  ordered  the  train  to  move  on; 
but  Peggy  perceived  that  the  girl  was  suffering  keenly. 

"Sha'n't  we  stop,  Allie?"  she  called,  a  few  minutes 
later. 

"No.     I'll  be  all  right  in  a  few  minutes." 

She  rode  on  for  nearly  half  an  hour,  bravely  enduring 
her  pain,  but  at  last  she  turned  to  Mrs.  Adams  and 
cried  out:  "I  can't  stand  it,  Peggy!  My  foot  pains 
me  frightfully!" 

Adams  again  called  to  Ward  and  the  procession  halted, 
while  Ward  came  back,  all  his  anger  gone. 

"We'll  go  into  camp,"  he  said,  as  he  examined  Tier 
bruised  foot.  "You're  badly  hurt." 

184 


THE   OUTLAW 

"It's  a  poor  place  to  camp,  Professor,"  protested 
Gage.  "If  she  can  go  on  for  about  fifteen  minutes — " 

"I'll  try,"  she  said;  "but  I  can't  bear  the  stirrup, 
and  my  shoe  is  full  of  blood." 

Ward,  who  was  now  keenly  sympathetic,  put  her  on 
his  own  horse  and  walked  beside  her  while  they  slowly 
crawled  down  into  the  small  valley,  which  held  a  deep 
and  grassy  tarn.  Here  they  went  into  camp  and  the 
day  was  lost. 

Alice  was  profoundly  mortified  to  find  herself  the  cause 
of  the  untimely  halt,  and  as  she  watched  the  men  mak 
ing  camp  with  anxious,  irritated  faces  she  wept  with 
shame  of  her  folly.  She  had  seized  the  worst  possible 
moment,  in  the  most  inaccessible  spot  of  their  journey, 
to  commit  her  crowning  indiscretion. 

She  was  ill  in  every  nerve,  shivering  and  weak,  and 
remained  for  that  day  the  center  of  all  the  activities  of 
the  camp.  Ward,  very  tender  even  in  his  chagrin,  was 
constantly  at  her  side,  his  brow  knotted  with  care.  He 
knew  what  it  meant  to  be  disabled  two  hundred  miles 
from  a  hospital,  with  fifty  miles  of  mountain  trail  be 
tween  one's  need  and  a  roof,  but  Alice  buoyed  herself 
up  with  the  belief  that  no  bones  were  broken,  and  that 
in  the  clear  air  of  the  germless  world  her  wound  would 
quickly  heal. 

She  lay  awake  a  good  part  of  that  night,  hearing, 
above  the  roar  of  the  water,  the  far-off  noises  of  the 
wild-animal  world.  A  wolf  howled,  a  cat  screamed, 
and  their  voices  were  fear-inspiring. 

She  began  also  to  worry  about  the  effect  of  her  mis 
hap  on  the  expedition,  for  she  heard  Ward  say  to  Adams : 
"This  delay  is  very  unfortunate.  Our  stay  is  so  limited. 
I  fear  we  will  not  be  able  to  proceed  for  some  days,  and 
snow  is  likely  to  fall  at  any  time." 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

What  they  said  after  that  Alice  could  not  hear,  but 
she  was  in  full  possession  of  their  trouble.  It  was  not  a 
question  of  the  loss  of  a  few  days;  it  meant  the  possible 
failure  of  the  entire  attempt  to  reach  the  summit. 

"Peggy,"  she  declared,  next  morning,  "the  men  must 

y  push  on  and  leave  you  with  me  here  in  the  camp.     I 

will  not  permit  the  expedition  to  fail  on  my  account." 

This  seemed  a  heroic  resolution  at  the  moment,  with 
the  menacing  sounds  of  the  night  still  fresh  in  her  ears, 
but  it  was  the  most  natural  and  reasonable  thing  in  the 
world  at  the  moment,  for  the  sun  was  rising  warm  and 
clear  and  the  valley  was  as  peaceful  and  as  beautiful  as 
a  park. 

Mrs.  Adams  readily  agreed  to  stay,  for  she  was  wholly 
free  from  the  ordinary  timidities  of  women,  but  Ward, 
though  sorely  tempted,  replied: 

"No.  We'll  wait  a  day  or  two  longer  and  see  how  you 
come  on." 

At  this  point  one  of  the  guides  spoke  up,  saying:  "If 
the  women  would  be  more  comfortable  in  a  cabin,  there's 
one  down  here  in  the  brush  by  the  lake.  I  found  it  this 
morning  when  I  was  wranglin'  the  horses." 

"A  cabin!    In  this  wild  place?"  said  Alice. 

"Yes,  ma'am — must  be  a  ranger's  cabin." 

Ward  mused.  "If  it's  habitable  it  would  be  warmer 
and  safer  than  a  tent.  Let's  go  see  about  it." 

He  came  back  jubilant.  "It  doesn't  seem  to  have 
been  occupied  very  recently,  but  is  in  fair  shape.  We'll 
move  you  right  down  there." 

The  wounded  girl  welcomed  the  shelter  of  a  roof,  and 
it  was  good  to  feel  solid  logs  about  her  helpless  self. 
The  interior  of  the  hut  was  untidy  and  very  rude,  but 
it  stood  in  a  delightful  nook  on  the  bank  of  a  pond  just 
where  a  small  stream  fell  into  the  valley,  and  it  required 


THE   OUTLAW 

but  a  few  minutes  of  Mrs.  Adams's  efforts  to  clear  the 
place  out  and  make  it  cozy,  and  soon  Alice,  groaning 
faintly,  was  deposited  in  the  rough  pole  bunk  at  the  dark 
end  of  the  room.  What  an  inglorious  end  to  her  exalted 
ride! 

Ward  seemed  to  understand  her  tears  as  he  stood 
looking  down  upon  her,  but  he  only  said:  "I  dislike 
leaving  you,  even  for  the  day.  I  shall  give  up  my  trip." 

"No,  no!  you  must  go  on!"  she  cried  out.  "I  shall 
hate  myself  if  you  don't  go  on." 

He  reluctantly  yielded  to  her  demand,  but  said:  "If  I 
find  that  we  can't  get  back  to-morrow  I  will  send  Gage 
back.  He's  a  trusty  fellow.  I  can't  spare  Adams,  and 
Smith  and  Todd — as  you  know — are  paying  for  their 
trip." 

Mrs.  Adams  spoke  up  firmly.  "You  need  not  worry 
about  us.  We  can  get  along  very  well  without  anybody. 
If  you  climb  the  peak  you'll  need  Gage.  I'm  not  afraid. 
We're  the  only  people  in  this  valley,  and  with  this 
staunch  little  cabin  I  feel  perfectly  at  home." 

"That's  quite  true,"  replied  Ward  in  a  relieved  tone. 
"We  are  above  the  hunters — no  one  ever  crosses  here 
now.  But  it  will  be  lonely." 

"Not  at  all!"  Alice  assured  him.  "We  shall  enjoy 
being  alone  in  the  forest." 

With  slow  and  hesitating  feet  Ward  left  the  two 
women  and  swung  into  his  saddle.  "I  guess  I'll  send 
Gage  back,  anyhow,"  he  said. 

"  Don't  think  of  it!"  called  Peggy. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Alice  was  glad  to  have  the  men 
pull  out.  Their  pity,  their  reproach,  irritated  her.  It 
was  as  if  they  repeated  aloud  a  scornful  phrase —  "You're 
a  lovely  and  tempting  creature,  but  you're  a  fool-hen 
just  the  same." 

187 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

The  two  women  spent  the  day  peacefully,  save  now 
and  then  when  Alice's  wounded  foot  ached  and  needed 
care;  but  as  night  began  to  rise  in  the  canon  like  the 
smoke  of  some  hidden,  silent,  subterranean  fire,  and  the 
high  crags  glowed  in  the  last  rays  of  the  sun,  each  of 
them  acknowledged  a  touch  of  that  immemorial  awe  of 
the  darkness  with  which  the  race  began. 

Peggy,  seating  herself  in  the  doorway,  described  the 
scene  to  her  patient,  who  could  see  but  little  of  it.  "Oh, 
but  it's  gloriously  uncanny  to  be  here.  Only  think! 
We  are  now  alone  with  God  and  His  animals,  and  the 
night." 

"I  hope  none  of  God's  bears  is  roaming  about," 
replied  Alice,  flippantly. 

"There  aren't  any  bears  above  the  berries.  We're 
perfectly  safe.  My  soul!  but  it's  a  mighty  country!  I 
wish  you  could  see  the  glow  on  the  peaks." 

"I'm  taking  my  punishment,"  replied  Alice.  "  Free 
man  was  very  angry,  wasn't  he?" 

"If  it  breaks  off  the  match  I  won't  be  surprised," 
replied  Peggy,  with  resigned  intonation. 

"There  wasn't  any  match  to  break  off." 

"Well!"  replied  the  other,  and  as  she  slowly  rose 
she  added:  "I  won't  say  that  he  is  perfectly  distracted 
about  you,  but  I  do  know  that  he  thinks  more  of  you 
than  of  any  other  woman  in  the  world,  and  I've  no 
doubt  he  is  worrying  about  you  this  minute." 


ii 

It  was  deep  moonless  night  when  Alice  woke  with  a 
start.  For  a  few  moments  she  lay  wondering  what 
had  roused  her — then  a  bright  light  flashed  and  her 
companion  screamed. 

188 


THE   OUTLAW 

"Who's  there!"  demanded  the  girl. 

In  that  instant  flare  she  saw  a  man's  face,  young, 
smooth,  with  dark  eyes  gleaming  beneath  a  broad  hat. 
He  stood  like  a  figure  of  bronze  while  his  match  was 
burning,  then  exclaimed  in  breathless  wonder: 

''Great  Peter's  ghost !  a  woman !"  Finally  he  stepped 
forward  and  looked  down  upon  the  white,  scared  faces 
as  if  uncertain  of  his  senses.  "Two  of  them!"  he  whis 
pered.  As  he  struck  his  second  match  he  gently  asked: 
"Would  you  mind  saying  how  you  got  here?" 

Alice  spoke  first.  "We  came  up  with  a  geological 
survey.  I  got  hurt  and  they  had  to  leave  us  behind." 

"Where's  your  party  gone?" 

"Up  to  the  glaciers." 

"When  did  they  leave?" 

"Yesterday  morning." 

"When  do  you  expect  them  back?" 

"Not  for  two  or  three  days." 

He  seemed  to  ponder  a  moment.  "You  say  you're 
hurt?  Where?" 

"My  horse  slipped  and  fell  on  my  foot." 

"Wait  a  minute,"  he  commanded.  "I'll  rustle  a 
candle.  I  left  one  here." 

When  his  form  came  out  of  the  dark  blur  behind  his 
candle  Alice  perceived  that  he  was  no  ordinary  hunter. 
He  was  young,  alert,  and  very  good-looking,  although 
his  face  was  stern  and  his  mouth  bitter.  He  laid  aside 
his  hat  as  he  approached  the  bunk  in  which  the  two 
women  were  cowering  as  mice  tremble  before  a  cat.  For 
a  full  minute  he  looked  down  at  them,  but  at  last  he 
smiled  and  said,  in  a  jocular  tone: 

"You're  sure-enough  women,  I  can  see  that.  You'll 
excuse  me— but  when  a  man  comes  back  to  a  shack  in 
the  middle  of  1she  night  in  a  place  like  this  and  finds 

189 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

a  couple  of  women  in  a  bunk  he's  likely  to  think  he's 
seeing  pictures  in  his  sleep." 

"I  can  understand  that,"  Alice  returned,  recovering 
her  self-command.  "You're  the  ranger,  I  suppose?  I 
told  my  friend  here  that  you  might  return." 

"I'm  mighty  glad  I  did,"  he  said,  heartily. 

"Thank  you;    you're  very  kind." 

He  bent  a  keen  glare  upon  her.     "What's  your  name?" 

"Alice  Mansfield." 

"What's  your  friend's  name?" 

"Mrs.  Adams." 

"Are  you  a  missis,  too?" 

She  hesitated.  This  was  impertinent,  but  then  she 
herself  was  an  intrusive  guest.  "No,"  she  answered, 
"I  am  not  married." 

"Where  are  you  from?" 

"New  York  City." 

"You're  a  long  way  from  home." 

"Yes,  I'm  feeling  that  this  minute."  She  drew  the 
coverlet  a  little  closer  to  her  chin. 

He  quickly  read  this  sign.    "  You  needn't  be  afraid  of  me." 

"I'm  not." 

"Yes,  you  are.  You're  both  all  of  a  tremble  and 
white  as  two  sheep — ' 

"It  isn't  that,"  wailed  the  girl;  "but  I've  twisted  my 
foot  again."  Her  moan  of  pain  broke  the  spell  that 
bound  Peggy. 

"Would  you  leave,  please,  for  a  moment?"  she  called 
to  the  owner  of  the  cabin.  "I've  got  to  get  up  and  doctor 
my  patient." 

"Sure!"  he  exclaimed,  moving  toward  the  door.  "If 
I  can  do  anything  let  me  know." 

As  soon  as  her  patient's  aching  foot  was  eased  Peggy 
opened  the  door  and  peeped  out.  A  faint  flare  of  yellow 

IQO 


THE   OUTLAW 

had  come  into  the  east,  and  beside  the  fire,  rolled  in  his 
blanket,  the  ranger  was  sleeping.  Frost  covered  every 
thing  and  the  air  was  keen. 

"He's  out  there  on  the  cold  ground — with  only  one 
blanket." 

"What  a  shame!  Tell  him  to  come  inside — I'm  not 
afraid  of  him." 

"Neither  am  I — but  I  don't  believe  he'll  come.  It's 
'most  morning,  anyway — perhaps  I'd  better  not  disturb 
him." 

"Take  one  of  these  quilts  to  him — that  will  help 
some." 

Mrs.  Adams  lifted  one  of  the  coverlets  and,  stealing 
softly  up,  was  spreading  it  over  the  sleeper  when  he  woke 
with  a  start,  a  wild  glare  of  alarm  in  his  eyes. 

"Oh,  it's  you!"  he  said  in  relief.  Then  he  added,  as 
he  felt  the  extra  cover:  "That's  mighty  white  of  you. 
Sure  you  don't  need  it?" 

"We  can  spare  it.  But  won't  you  come  inside?  I'm 
sorry  we  drove  you  out  of  your  cabin." 

"That's  all  right.  I'm  used  to  this.  Good  night. 
I'm  just  about  dead  for  sleep." 

Thus  dismissed,  Peggy  went  back  and  lay  down  beside 
Alice.  "He  says  he's  quite  comfortable,"  she  remarked, 
"and  I  hope  he  is,  but  he  doesn't  look  it." 

When  she  woke  again  it  was  broad  daylight  and  Alice 
was  turning  restlessly  on  her  hard  bed.  In  the  blaze  of 
the  sun  all  the  mystery  of  the  night  vanished.  The 
incident  of  the  return  of  the  ranger  to  his  cabin  was  as 
natural  as  the  coming  of  dawn. 

"He  probably  makes  regular  trips  through  here,"  said 
Mrs.  Adams. 

But  the  wounded  girl  silently  differed,  for  she  had 
read  in  the  man's  eyes  and  voice  a  great  deal  more  than 


THEY   OF   THE   HIGH   TRAILS 

belonged  to  the  commonplace  character  of  a  forest- 
ranger.     That  first  vision  of  his  face  burned  deep. 

She  had  seen  on  the  wall  of  the  station  at  "the  road" 
the  description  of  a  train-robber  which  tallied  closely 
with  this  man's  general  appearance,  and  the  conviction 
that  she  was  living  in  the  hidden  hut  of  an  outlaw  grew 
into  a  certainty.  "I  must  not  let  him  suspect  my  dis 
covery,"  she  thought. 

Mrs.  Adams  (who  had  not  read  the  placard)  treated 
the  young  fellow  as  if  he  were  one  of  the  forest  wardens, 
manifesting  complete  confidence  in  him. 

He  deftly  helped  her  about  breakfast,  and  when  she 
invited  him  into  the  cabin  he  came  readily,  almost 
eagerly,  but  he  approached  Alice's  bed  with  a  touch  of 
hesitation,  and  his  glance  was  softer  and  his  voice  gentler 
as  he  said: 

"Well,  how  do  you  stack  up  this  morning?" 

"Much  better,  thank  you." 

"Must  have  been  a  jolt — my  coming  in  last  night  the 
way  I  did?" 

' '  I  guess  the  '  jolt '  was  mutual.    You  looked  surprised. ' ' 

He  smiled  again,  a  faint,  swift  half -smile.  "Sur 
prised!  That's  no  name  for  it.  For  a  minute  I  thought 
I'd  fallen  clear  through.  I  hope  you  didn't  get  a  back 
set  on  account  of  it." 

"Oh  no,  thank  you." 

"How  many  men  are  in  your  party?" 

"Six,  counting  the  guides." 

"Who  are  the  men?" 

She  named  them,  and  he  mused  darkly,  his  eyes  on 
her  face.  "  I  reckon  I  can't  wait  to  make  their  acquaint 
ance.  I'm  going  on  down  the  Green  River  to-day. 
I'm  sorry  to  miss  'em.  They  must  be  a  nice  bunch — 
to  leave  two  women  alone  this  way." 

192 


THE   OUTLAW 

He  ate  heartily,  but  with  a  nicety  which  betrayed 
better  training  than  is  usual  to  men  in  his  position.  He 
remained  silent  and  in  deep  thought,  though  his  eyes 
were  often  on  Alice's  face. 

As  he  rose  to  go  he  said  to  Peggy:  " Would  you  mind 
doing  up  a  little  grub  for  me?  I  don't  know  just  when 
I'll  strike  another  camp." 

' '  Why,  of  course !  I  '11  be  glad  to.     Do  you  have  to  go  ? " 

"Yes,  I  must  pull  out,"  he  replied,  and  while  she  was 
preparing  his  lunch  he  rolled  a  blanket  and  tied  it  behind 
his  saddle.  At  last  he  re-entered  the  cabin  and,  again 
advancing  to  Alice's  bedside,  musingly  remarked:  "I 
hate  to  leave  you  women  here  alone.  It  doesn't  seem 
right.  Are  you  sure  your  party  will  return  to-night?" 

"Either  to-night  or  to-morrow.  Professor  Ward  in 
tends  to  climb  Fremont  Peak." 

"Then  you  won't  sec  him  for  three  days."  His  tone 
was  that  of  one  who  communes  with  himself.  "  I  reckon 
I'd  better  stay  till  to-morrow.  I  don't  like  the  feeling 
of  the  air." 

She  explained  that  Gage,  one  of  the  guides,  would 
return  in  case  the  professor  wished  to  remain  in  the 
heights. 

"Well,  I'll  hang  around  till  toward  night,  anyhow." 

He  went  away  for  half  an  hour,  and  upon  his  return 
presented  a  cleanly  shaven  face  and  a  much  less  savage 
look  and  bearing.  He  hovered  about  the  door,  appar 
ently  listening  to  Peggy's  chatter,  but  having  eyes  only 
for  the  wounded  girl.  He  seized  every  slightest  excuse 
to  come  in,  and  his  voice  softened  and  his  manner 
changed  quite  as  markedly,  and  at  last,  while  Mrs. 
Adams  was  momentarily  absent,  he  abruptly  said: 

"You  are  afraid  of  me;  I  can  see  it  in  your  eyes.  I 
know  why.  You  think  you  know  who  I  am." 

193 


THEY   OF   THE   HIGH   TRAILS 

"Yes;    I'm  sure  of  it." 
"What  makes  you  think  so?" 
"  I  saw  your  picture  in  the  railway  station." 
He  regarded  her  darkly.     "Well,  I  trust  you.     You 
won't  give  me  away.     I'm  not  so  sure  of  her."     He 
nodded  his  head  toward  the  open  door. 

"What  would  be  the  good  of  my  betraying  you?" 
"Two  thousand  dollars'  reward  is  a  big  temptation." 
"Nonsense!     If  I  told — it  would  be  for  other  reasons. 
If  I  were  to  betray  your  hiding-place  it  would  be  be 
cause  society  demands  the  punishment  of  criminals." 

"I'm  not  a  criminal.  I  never  lifted  a  cent  from  any 
man.  I  didn't  get  a  dollar  from  the  express  company — 
but  I  tried — I  want  you  to  know,  anyway,"  he  con 
tinued,  "that  I  wouldn't  rob  an  individual — and  I 
wouldn't  have  tried  this,  only  I  was  blind  drunk  and 
desperate.  I  needed  cash,  and  needed  it  bad." 

"What  did  you  need  it  for?"  asked  Alice,  with  a 
steady  look. 

He  hesitated,  and  a  flush  crept  across  his  brown  face. 
His  eyes  wavered.  "Well,  you  see,  the  old  home  was 
mortgaged — and  mother  was  sick — " 

"Oh,  bosh!  Tell  me  the  truth,"  she  demanded. 
"The  papers  said  you  did  it  for  a  girl.  Why  not  be 
honest  with  me?" 

"I  will,"  he  responded,  impulsively.  "Yes,  that's 
right.  I  did  it  for  a  girl — and  afterward,  when  I  was  on 
the  run,  what  did  she  do?  Threw  me  down!  Told 
everything  she  knew — the  little  coyote — and  here  I  am 
hunted  like  a  wolf  on  account  of  it."  His  face  settled 
into  savage  lines  for  a  moment.  But  even  as  he  sat 
thus  another  light  came  into  his  eyes.  His  gaze  took 
account  of  Alice's  lips  and  the  delicate,  rounded  white 
ness  of  her  neck  and  chin.  Her  like  he  had  never  met 

194 


THE   OUTLAW 

before.  The  girls  he  had  known  giggled;  this  one 
smiled.  His  sweetheart  used  slang  and  talked  of  cattle 
like  a  herder,  but  this  woman's  voice,  so  sweet  and  flex 
ible,  made  delightfully  strange  music  to  his  ears. 

Peggy's  return  cut  short  his  confidence,  and  while  she 
was  in  the  cabin  he  sat  in  silence,  his  eyes  always  on  the 
girl.  He  seized  every  opportunity  to  speak  to  her,  and 
each  time  his  voice  betrayed  increasing  longing  for  her 
favor. 

Mrs.  Adams,  who  had  conceived  a  liking  for  him, 
ordered  him  about  as  freely  as  though  he  were  a  hired 
guide,  and  he  made  himself  useful  on  the  slightest 
hint. 

Alice,  on  her  part,  was  profoundly  interested  in  him, 
and  whenever  her  foot  would  permit  her  to  think  of  any 
thing  else,  she  pitied  him.  In  the  madness  of  his  need, 
his  love,  he  had  committed  an  act  which  made  all  the 
world  his  enemy,  and  yet,  as  she  studied  his  form  and 
expression,  her  heart  filled  with  regret.  He  was  very 
attractive  in  the  Western  way,  with  nothing  furtive  or 
evasive  about  him. 

With  a  directness  quite  equal  to  his  own  she  ques 
tioned  him  about  his  reckless  deed. 

"Why  did  you  do  it?"  she  exclaimed  in  despair  of  his 
problem. 

"I  don't  know.  Hanged  if  I  do,  especially  now.  Since 
seeing  you  I  think  I  was  crazy — crazy  as  a  loon.  If  I'd 
done  it  for  you,  now,  it  wouldn't  have  been  so  wild. 
You're  worth  a  man's  life.  I'd  die  for  you." 

This  outburst  of  passion,  so  fierce  and  wild,  thrilled 
the  girl ;  she  grew  pale  with  comprehension  of  his  mood. 
It  meant  that  the  sight  of  her  lying  there  had  replaced 
the  old  madness  with  a  new  one.  She  was  unprepared 
for  this  furious  outflaming  of  primitive  admiration, 

195 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

"You  mustn't  talk  like  that  to  me,"  she  protested,  as 
firmly  as  she  could. 

He  sensed  her  alarm.  "  Don't  you  be  scared,"  he  said, 
gently.  "I  didn't  mean  to  jar  you.  I  only  meant  that 
I  didn't  know  such  women  as  you  were  in  the  world. 
I'd  trust  you.  You've  got  steady  eyes.  You'd  stick  by 
the  man  that  played  his  whole  soul  for  you,  I  can  see 
that.  I  come  of  pretty  good  stock.  I  reckon  that's  why 
you  mean  so  much  to  me.  You  get  hold  of  me  in  a  way 
I  can't  explain." 

' '  Why  don' t  you  fly  ? "  she  asked  him .  ' '  Every  minute 
you  spend  here  increases  your  danger.  The  men  may 
return  at  any  moment." 

"That's  funny,  too,"  he  answered,  and  a  look  of 
singular,  musing  tenderness  fell  over  his  face.  "I'd 
rather  sit  here  with  you  and  take  my  chances." 

"But  you  must  not!  You  are  imperiling  your  life  for 
nothing." 

' '  You're  mistaken  there.  I 'm  getting  something  every 
minute — something  that  will  stay  with  me  all  my  life. 
After  I  leave  you  it  doesn't  matter.  I  came  into  the 
hills  just  naturally,  the  way  the  elk  does.  After  that 
girl  reported  me,  life  didn't  count.  Seeing  you  has 
changed  me.  It  matters  a  whole  lot  to  me  this  minute, 
and  when  I  leave  you  it's  stormy  sunset  for  me,  sure 
thing." 

Alice  gazed  upon  him  with  steady  eyes,  but  her 
bosom  rose  and  fell  with  the  emotion  which  filled  her 
heart.  She  debated  calling  for  Mrs.  Adams,  but  there 
was  something  in  the  droop  of  the  outlaw's  head,  in  the 
tone  of  his  voice,  which  arrested  her.  However  sudden 
and  frenzied  his  admiration  might  seem  to  others,  it  was 
sincere  and  manly,  of  that  she  was  persuaded.  Never 
theless,  she  was  deeply  perturbed. 

196 


THE   OUTLAW 

"I  wish  you  would  go,"  she  entreated  at  last,  huskily. 
"I  don't  want  to  see  you  taken.  You  have  made  your 
self  a  criminal  and  I  ought  not  to  find  excuses  for  you, 
but  I  do.  You're  so  young.  It  doesn't  seem  as  if  you 
knew  what  you  were  doing.  Why  don't  you  ride  away 
into  the  wild  north  country  and  begin  a  new  life  some 
where?  Can't  you  escape  to  Canada?" 

He  seized  eagerly  upon  her  suggestion.  "Will  you 
write  to  me  if  I  do?" 

"No,  I  cannot  promise  that." 

"Why  can't  I  play  the  ranger  here  and  wait  upon 
you  till  the  men  return?" 

"Because  Professor  Ward  read  that  placard  with  me. 
He  will  know  you  instantly.  I  wish  you'd  go.  Gage 
may  come  at  any  moment  now." 

Peggy  came  in  with  disturbed  look.  "It  looks  like 
rain,"  she  announced;  "the  clouds  are  settling  down  all 
over  the  peaks." 

The  outlaw  sprang  up  and  went  to  the  door.  "It 
looked  bad  when  I  got  up,"  he  said,  as  he  studied 
the  sky.  "I  guess  we're  in  for  trouble.  It  may  be 
snow." 

His  fears  were  soon  realized.  Rain  began  to  fall  in 
a  thin  drizzle,  and  at  four  o'clock  the  first  faint  flakes 
of  snow  began  to  flash  amid  the  gray  veils  of  the  water- 
drops.  The  women  looked  at  each  other  in  alarm  as 
the  cabin's  interior  darkened  with  the  ominous  shadow 
of  the  storm. 

"I  don't  like  this  a  bit,"  said  Peggy,  after  a  while. 
"This  is  no  mountain  squall.  I  wish  the  men  were 
here." 

"It  can't  be  anything  that  will  last,"  replied  Alice. 
"It  isn't  time  for  the  winter  snows." 

"I  know,"  replied  Peggy.  "But  it's  snowing  perfect 
197 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

feather  beds  now,   and  no  wind.     Lucky  this   forest- 
ranger  is  here.     The  men  may  get  lost  in  this  storm." 

"Mercy!  Don't  speak  of  such  a  thing!"  exclaimed 
Alice;  but  she  knew,  just  the  same,  that  Ward  and  his 
party  were  high  in  the  peaks,  far,  far  above  the  cabin, 
and  that  the  storm  there  would  be  proportionately 
fiercer.  She  listened  with  growing  thankfulness  to  the 
outlaw's  blows  upon  the  dry  limbs  of  wood  that  he  was 
chopping  for  the  fire.  He  was  very  capable  and  would 
not  desert  them — of  that  she  felt  assured. 

As  the  man  worked  on,  the  women  both  came  to  keen 
realization  of  the  serious  view  he  took  of  the  storm.  He 
mounted  his  horse  and  with  his  rope  dragged  great 
bundles  of  fagots  from  the  thickets.  As  he  came  up, 
laden  with  one  of  his  bundles  of  hard-won  fuel,  Mrs. 
Adams  asked: 

"You  don't  think  it  will  keep  this  up,  do  you?" 

"You  never  can  tell  what  will  happen  in  these  moun 
tains.  It  doesn't  generally  snow  much  till  later,  but 
you  can't  bank  on  anything  in  this  range." 

Alice  called  to  him  and  he  stepped  inside.  "What  do 
you  think  we'd  better  do?"  she  asked. 

"There  isn't  a  thing  you  can  do,  miss.  It's  just  a 
case  of  stick  it  out.  It  may  let  up  by  sundown;  but, 
as  it  is,  your  party  can't  get  back  to-night,  and  if  you 
don't  mind  I'll  camp  down  just  outside  the  door  and 
keep  the  fire  going." 

"You  will  be  a  comfort  to  us,"  she  replied,  "but  I 
feel  that — that  you  ought  to  be  going.  Isn't  it  danger 
ous  for  you?  I  mean  you  will  be  shut  in  here." 

"If  I'm  shut  in,  others  are  shut  out,"  he  answered, 
with  a  grim  smile.  "My  job  is  to  keep  fire."  With 
these  words  he  returned  to  his  work  of  breaking  limbs 
from  the  dead  firs. 

198 


THE   OUTLAW 

Alice  said:  "If  it  does  turn  out  as  this—this  ranger 
says — if  the  storm  keeps  up,  you  mustn't  let  him  sleep 
out  in  the  snow." 

"Of  course  not,"  said  Peggy.  "He  can  sleep  inside. 
I  trust  him  perfectly — and,  besides,  you  have  your  re 
volver." 

Alice  smiled  a  little,  wondering  how  Peggy's  trust 
would  stand  the  strain  of  a  fuller  knowledge  concerning 
their  guardian's  stirring  career. 


in 

In  spite  of  her  knowledge  of  the  mountains  and  her 
natural  intrepidity  of  character  the  wounded  girl's  heart 
sank  as  the  snow  and  the  night  closed  down  over  the 
tiny  cabin  in  its  covert  of  firs.  To  be  on  foot  in  such 
gloom,  in  the  heart  of  such  a  wilderness,  was  sufficiently 
awe-inspiring,  but  to  be  helpless  on  a  hard  bed  was  to 
feel  the  utter  inconsequence  of  humankind.  "Suppose 
the  storm  blocks  the  trails  so  that  the  men  cannot  return 
for  a  week?  What  will  we  do  for  food?" 

Each  time  she  heard  the  outlaw  deliver  his  burden  of 
wood  her  heart  warmed  to  him.  He  was  now  her  com 
fort  and  very  present  stay.  "If  it  should  happen  that 
the  trails  become  impassable  he  alone  will  stand  between 
us  and  death,"  she  thought. 

The  outlaw  came  in  to  say,  abruptly,  "If  you  weren't 
hurt  and  if  I  weren't  in  such  a  hurry  I'd  rather  enjoy 
this." 

He  slashed  his  sombrero  against  his  thigh  as  he  spoke, 
and  Mrs.  Adams  answered  his  remark  without  knowl 
edge  of  its  inner  meaning. 

"You  mustn't  think  of  sleeping  outdoors  to-night — 
Mr.—?" 

14  199 


THEY   OF    THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

" Smith.  I  belong  to  the  big  family,  the  Smiths,"  he 
promptly  replied. 

"Why  don't  you  take  away  that  improvised  table  by 
the  wall  and  make  your  bed  there?" 

"We'll  need  the  table,"  he  responded  in  a  matter- 
of-fact  tone.  "I'll  just  crawl  under  it.  What's  giving 
me  most  trouble  is  the  question  of  grub.  They  didn't 
leave  you  any  too  much,  did  they?" 

"But  you  can  kill  game,  can't  you?"  asked  Peggy. 

"We're  pretty  high  up  for  elk,  and  the  blue  grouse 
are  scarce  this  year,  but  I  reckon  I  can  jump  a  deer  or 
a  ground-hog.  We  won't  starve,  anyway." 

Alice  perceived  in  his  voice  a  note  of  exultation.  He 
was  glad  of  his  reprieve,  and  the  thought  of  being  her 
protector,  at  least  for  the  night,  filled  him  with  joy. 
She  read  his  mind  easily  and  the  romance  of  this  rela 
tionship  stirred  her  own  heart.  The  dramatic  possibili 
ties  of  the  situation  appealed  to  her.  At  any  moment 
the  men  might  return  and  force  her  into  the  role  of 
defender.  On  the  other  hand,  they  might  be  confined 
for  days  together  in  this  little  cabin,  and  in  this  enforced 
intimacy  Peggy  was  sure  to  discover  his  secret  and  his 
adoration. 

The  little  hovel  was  filled  with  the  golden  light  of 
the  blazing  fagots,  and  through  the  open  door  Alice 
could  see  the  feathery  crystals  falling  in  a  wondrous, 
glittering  curtain  across  the  night.  The  stream  roared 
in  subdued  voice  as  though  oppressed  by  the  snows, 
and  the  shadow  of  the  fugitive  as  he  moved  about  the 
fire  had  a  savage,  primal  significance  which  awed  the 
girl  into  silence. 

He  was  very  deft  in  camp  work,  and  cooked  their 
supper  for  them  almost  as  well  as  they  could  have  done 
it  themselves,  but  he  refused  to  sit  at  the  table  with 

200 


THE    OUTLAW 

Peggy.  "I'll  just  naturally  stick  to  my  slicker,  if  you 
don't  mind.  I'm  wet  and  my  hands  are  too  grimy  to 
eat  with  a  lady." 

Alice  continued  to  talk  to  him,  always  with  an  under 
current  of  meaning  which  he  easily  read  and  adroitly 
answered.  This  care,  this  double  meaning,  drew  them 
ever  closer  in  spirit,  and  the  girl  took  an  unaccountable 
pleasure  in  it. 

After  supper  he  took  his  seat  in  the  open  doorway, 
and  the  girl  in  the  bunk  looked  upon  him  with  softened 
glance.  She  had  no  fear  of  him  now;  on  the  contrary, 
she  mentally  leaned  upon  him.  Without  him  the  night 
would  be  a  terror,  the  dawn  an  uncertainty.  The  brave 
self-reliance  of  his  spirit  appeared  in  stronger  light  as 
she  considered  that  for  weeks  he  had  been  camping  alone, 
and  that  but  for  this  accident  to  her  he  would  be  facing 
this  rayless  wintry  night  in  solitude. 

He  began  again  to  question  her.  "I  wish  you'd  tell  me 
more  about  yourself,"  he  said,  his  dark  eyes  fixed  upon 
her.  "I  can't  understand  why  any  girl  like  you  should 
come  up  here  with  a  bunch  of  rock-sharps.  Are  you 
tied  up  to  the  professor?" 

If  Peggy  expected  her  patient  to  resent  this  question 
she  must  have  been  surprised,  for  Alice  merely  smiled  as 
if  at  the  impertinence  of  a  child. 

Mrs.  Adams  replied:  "I  can  tell  you  that  she  is — 
and  a  very  fortunate  girl  her  friends  think  her." 

He  turned  to  her  with  unmoved  face.  "You  mean 
he's  got  money,  I  reckon." 

"Money  and  brains  and  good  looks  and  a  fine 
position." 

"That's  about  the  whole  works,  ain't  it — leastwise  he 
will  have  it  all  when  he  gets  you.  A  man  like  that 
doesn't  deserve  what  he's  got.  He's  a  chump.  Do  you 

201; 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

suppose  I'd  go  off  and  leave  you  alone  in  a  hole  like  this 
with  a  smashed  leg?  I'd  never  bring  you  into  such  a 
country,  in  the  first  place.  And  I  certainly  wouldn't 
leave  you  just  to  study  a  shack  of  ice  on  the  mountain 
side." 

"I  urged  him  to  go,  and,  besides,  Peggy  is  mistaken; 
we're  not  engaged." 

"But  he  left  you!  That's  what  sticks  in  my  crop. 
He  can't  be  just  right  in  his  head.  If  I  had  any  chance 
of  owning  you  I'd  never  let  you  out  of  my  sight.  I 
wouldn't  take  a  chance.  I  don't  understand  these  city 
fellows.  I  reckon  their  blood  is  thinned  with  ice-water. 
If  I  had  you  I'd  be  scared  every  minute  for  fear  of  losing 
you.  I'd  be  as  dangerous  to  touch  as  a  silver-tip.  If 
I  had  any  place  to  take  you  I'd  steal  you  right  now." 

This  was  more  than  banter.  Even  Mrs.  Adams  per 
ceived  the  passion  quivering  beneath  his  easy,  low-toned 
speech.  He  was  in  truth  playing  with  the  conception 
of  seizing  this  half -smiling,  half -musing  girl  whose  help 
less  body  was  at  once  a  lure  and  an  inspiration.  It  was 
perfectly  evident  that  he  was  profoundly  stirred. 

And  so  was  Alice.  "What,"  she  dared  ask  herself, 
"will  become  of  this?" 


IV 

To  the  outlaw  in  the  Rocky  Mountain  cabin  in  that 
stormy  night  it  was  in  every  respect  the  climax  of  his 
life.  As  he  sat  in  the  doorway,  looking  at  the  fire  and 
over  into  the  storm  beyond,  he  realized  that  he  was 
shaken  by  a  wild,  crude  lyric  of  passion.  Here  was,  to 
him,  the  pure  emotion  of  love.  All  the  beautiful  things 
he  had  ever  heard  or  read  of  girlhood,  of  women,  of 
marriage,  rose  in  his  mind  to  make  this  night  an  almost 

203 


THE   OUTLAW 

intolerable  blending  of  joy  and  sorrow,  hope  and  de 
spair. 

To  stay  time  in  its  flight,  to  make  this  hour  his  own, 
to  cheat  the  law,  to  hold  the  future  at  bay — these  were 
the  avid  desires,  the  vague  resolutions,  of  his  brain.  So 
sure  as  the  day  came  this  happiness  would  end.  To 
morrow  he  must  resume  his  flight,  resigning  his  new 
found  jewel  into  the  hands  of  another.  To  this  thought 
he  returned  again  and  again,  each  time  with  new  adora 
tion  for  the  girl  and  added  fury  and  hate  against  his  re 
lentless  pursuers  and  himself.  He  did  not  spare  him 
self!  "Gad!  what  a  fool  I've  been — and  yet,  if  I  had 
been  less  a  fool  I  would  not  be  here  and  I  would  never 
have  met  her."  He  ended  with  a  glance  toward  Alice. 

Then  he  arose,  closed  the  door  of  the  cabin,  and  stood 
without  beside  the  fire,  so  that  the  women  might  prepare 
for  bed.  His  first  thought  of  suicide  came  to  him.  Why 
not  wait  with  his  love  as  long  as  possible- — stay  till  the 
law's  hand  was  in  the  air  above  his  head,  uplifted  to 
strike,  and  then,  in  this  last  moment,  die  with  this  latest, 
most  glorious  passion  as  climax  to  his  career?  To  flee 
meant  endless  fear,  torment.  To  be  captured  meant 
defeat,  utter  and  final  dismay. 

A  knock  upon  the  door  startled  him,  and  Peggy's  voice 
cut  short  his  meditation.  "You  can  come  in  now,  Mr. 
Smith,"  she  said. 

The  broad  crystals  were  still  falling  thickly  and  the  fire 
was  hissing  and  spluttering  around  a  huge  root  which  he 
had  rolled  upon  it.  In  its  light  the  cabin  stood  hardly 
higher  than  a  kennel,  and  yet  it  housed  the  woman  whose 
glance  had  transformed  his  world  into  something  mys 
tical.  A  man  of  commonplace  ancestry  would  have  felt 
only  an  animal  delight  in  shelter  and  warmth,  but  this 
youth  was  stirred  to  a  spiritual  exaltation.  The  girl's 

203 


THEY   OF    THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

bosom,  the  rounded  beauty  of  her  neck,  appealed  to  him, 
but  so  also  did  the  steady  candor  of  her  gaze  and  the 
sweet  courage  of  her  lips.  Her  helplessness  roused  his 
protective  instinct,  and  her  words,  the  sound  of  her 
voice,  so  precise,  so  alien-sweet,  filled  him  with  bitter 
sadness,  and  he  re-entered  the  house  in  such  spirit  of 
self-abasement  as  he  had  never  known  before. 

He  lay  down  upon  the  hard  floor  in  silence,  his  au 
dacity  gone,  his  reckless  courage  deep-sunk  in  gloomy 
foreboding. 

Alice,  on  her  part,  could  not  free  her  mind  from  the 
burden  of  his  crime.  He  was  so  young  and  so  hand 
some,  to  be  hunted  like  a  noxious  beast!  She  had  at 
the  moment  more  concern  of  him  than  of  Ward,  and  in 
this  lay  a  certain  disloyalty.  She  sighed  deeply  as  she 
thought  of  the  outlaw  resuming  his  flight  next  day. 
Would  it  not  be  better  for  him  to  sacrifice  himself  to  the 
vengeance  of  the  state  at  once  and  so  end  it?  What 
right  had  she  to  shield  him  from  the  law's  demand? 
"He  is  a  criminal,  after  all.  He  must  pay  for  his  rash 
act." 

She  could  not  sleep,  and  when  he  rose  to  feed  the  fire 
she  softly  asked,  "Does  it  still  storm?" 

"No,"  he  answered  in  a  tone  that  voiced  disappoint 
ment;  "the  sky  is  clear." 

"Isn't  that  cheering!"  she  exclaimed,  still  in  the  same 
hushed  voice. 

"For  you,"  he  replied.  "For  me  it's  another  story." 
He  felt  the  desire  for  a  secret  consultation  which  moved 
her,  and  on  his  way  back  to  his  corner  he  halted  and 
fixed  his  eyes  upon  her  in  hungry  admiration  of  her  fire- 
lit  face.  Then  he  spoke:  "I  should  have  pulled  out 
before  the  storm  quit.  They  can  trail  me  now.  But 
no  matter;  I've  known  you." 

204 


THE    OUTLAW 

She  still  kept  to  ambiguous  speech.  ''Wouldn't  it  be 
better  to  give  up  and  take  your — misfortune,  and  begin 
again?  Professor  Ward  and  I  will  do  all  we  can  to  help 
you." 

"That's  mighty  white  of  you,"  he  responded,  slowly. 
"But  I  can't  stand  the  thought  of  confinement.  I've 
been  free  as  an  Injun  all  my  life.  Every  way  of  the 
wind  has  been  open  to  me.  No;  just  as  long  as  I  can 
find  a  wild  spot  I  must  keep  moving.  If  it  comes  to 
'hands  up!'  I  take  the  short  cut."  He  tapped  his  re 
volver  as  he  spoke. 

"You  mustn't  do  that,"  she  entreated.  "Promise  me 
you  won't  think  of  that!" 

He  made  a  stride  toward  her,  but  a  movement  of  her 
companion  checked  him. 

"Is  it  morning?"  Peggy  sleepily  asked. 

"Not  quite,"  answered  the  outlaw,  "but  it's  time  for 
me  to  be  moving.  I'd  like  to  hear  from  you  some  time," 
he  said  to  Alice,  and  his  voice  betrayed  his  sadness  and 
tenderness.  "Where  could  I  reach  you?" 

She  gave  her  address  with  a  curious  sense  of  wrong 
doing. 

He  listened  intently.     "I'll  remember  that,"  he  said, 
"when   I've   forgotten  everything  else.     And  now — 
He  reached  his  hand  to  her  and  she  took  it. 

"Poor  boy!  I'm  sorry  for  you!"  she  whispered. 

Her  words  melted  his  heart.  Dropping  on  his  knees 
beside  her  bed,  he  pressed  her  fingers  to  his  lips,  then 
rose.  "I'll  see  you  again — somewhere — some  time,"  he 
said,  brokenly.  "Good-by." 

No  sooner  had  the  door  closed  behind  the  outlaw 
than  Peggy  rose  in  her  place  beside  Alice  and  voiced 
her  mystification.  "Now  what  is  the  meaning  of  all 
that?" 

205 


THEY    OF   THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

"Don't  ask  me,"  replied  the  girl.  "I  don't  feel  like 
talking,  and  my  foot  is  aching  dreadfully.  Can't  you 
get  up  and  bathe  it?  I  hate  to  ask  you — but  it  hurts 
me  so." 

Peggy  sprang  up  and  began  to  dress,  puffing  and 
whistling  with  desperation.  As  soon  as  she  was  dressed 
she  ran  to  the  door  and  opened  it.  All  was  still  a  world 
of  green  and  white.  "The  fire  is  almost  out,"  she  re 
ported,  "and  I  can  see  Mr.  Smith's  horse's  tracks." 


It  was  about  ten  o'clock  when  a  couple  of  horsemen 
suddenly  rounded  the  point  of  the  forest  and  rode  into 
the  clearing.  One  of  them,  a  slender,  elderly  man  with 
gray,  curly  beard  and  a  skin  like  red  leather,  dismounted 
and  came  slowly  to  the  door,  and  though  his  eyes  ex 
pressed  surprise  at  meeting  women  in  such  a  place,  he 
was  very  polite. 

"Mornin',  ma'am,"  he  said,  with  suave  inflection. 

4 'Good  morning,"  Peggy  replied. 

"Fine  snowy  mornin'." 

"It  is  so."  She  was  a  little  irritated  by  the  fixed 
stare  of  his  round,  gray  eyes. 

He  became  more  direct.  "  May  I  ask  who  you  are  and 
how  you  happen  to  be  here,  ma'am?" 

"You  may.  I'm  Mrs.  Adams.  I  came  up  here  with 
my  husband,  Professor  Adams." 

"Where  is  he?" 

"He  has  gone  up  the  trail  toward  Fr&nont.  He  is  a 
botanist." 

"Is  that  his  horse's  tracks?" 

Alice  called  sharply,  "Peggy!" 

Mrs,  Adams  turned  abruptly  and  went  in, 
206 


THE   OUTLAW 

The  stranger  turned  a  slow  gaze  upon  his  companion. 
"Well,  this  beats  me.  Tears  like  we're  on  the  wrong 
trail,  Bob.  I  reckon  we've  just  naturally  overhauled  a 
bunch  of  tourists." 

"Better  go  in  and  see  what's  inside,"  suggested  the 
other  man,  slipping  from  his  horse. 

"All  right.    You  stay  where  you  are." 

As  he  stepped  to  the  door  and  rapped,  Peggy  opened  it, 
but  Alice  took  up  the  inquiry. 

"What  do  you  want?"  she  asked,  imperiously. 

The  man,  after  looking  keenly  about,  quietly  replied: 
"I'm  wonderin'  how  you  women  come  to  be  here  alone, 
but  first  of  all  I  want  to  know  who  made  them  tracks  out 
side  the  door?" 

Alice  ignored  the  latter  part  of  his  question  and  set 
about  satisfying  his  wonder.  "We  came  up  here 
with  a  geological  survey,  but  my  horse  fell  on  my 
foot  and  I  couldn't  ride,  so  the  men  had  to  leave  me 
behind—" 

"Alone?"  sharply  interrogated  the  man. 

' '  No ;  one  man  stayed. ' ' 

"What  was  his  name?" 

"  I  don't  know.     We  called  him  Smith." 

"Was  he  the  man  that  rode  away  this  morning?" 

"What  does  that  matter  to  you?"  asked  the  girl. 
"Why  are  you  so  inquisitive?" 

He  maintained  his  calm  tone  of  mild  authority.  "I'm 
the  sheriff  of  Uinta  County,  ma'am,  and  I'm  looking  for 
a  man  who's  been  hiding  out  in  this  basin.  I  was  trailin' 
him  close  when  the  snow  came  on  yesterday,  and  I  didn't 
know  but  what  these  tracks  was  his." 

Peggy  turned  toward  Alice  with  an  involuntary  ex 
pression  of  enlightenment,  and  the  sheriff  read  it  quickly. 
Slipping  between  the  two  women,  he  said; 

207 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

"Jest  a  minute,  miss.  What  sort  of  a  looking  man 
was  this  Smith?" 

Alice  took  up  the  story.  "He  was  rather  small  and 
dark — wasn't  he,  Peggy?" 

Peggy  considered.  "I  didn't  notice  him  particularly. 
Yes,  I  think  he  was." 

The  man  outside  called:  "Hurry  up,  Cap.  It's  be 
ginning  to  snow  again." 

The  sheriff  withdrew  toward  the  door.  "You're  both 
lying,"  he  remarked  without  heat,  "but  it  don't  matter. 
We'll  mighty  soon  overhaul  this  man  on  the  horse — who 
ever  he  is.  If  you've  been  harboring  Hall  McCord  we'll 
have  to  take  you,  too."  With  that  threat  as  a  farewell 
he  mounted  his  horse  and  rode  away. 

Peggy  turned  to  Alice.  "Did  you  know  that  young 
fellow  was  an  outlaw?" 

"Yes;  I  saw  his  picture  and  description  on  a  placard 
in  the  railway  station.  I  recognized  him  at  once." 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me?" 

"Well,  I  liked  his  looks,  and,  besides,  I  wanted  to  find 
out  if  he  were  really  bad  or  only  unfortunate." 

"What  has  he  done?" 

"They  say  he  held  up  a  train!" 

"Merciful  Heavens!  a  train-robber!  What's  his  real 
name?" 

"The  name  on  the  placard  was  Hall  McCord." 

"And  to  think  he  was  in  the  same  room  with  us  last 
night,  and  you  were  chumming  with  him !  I  can't  under 
stand  you.  Are  you  sure  he  is  the  robber?" 

"Yes.  He  confessed  to  having  tried  to  rob  the  express 
car." 

"He  seemed  such  a  nice  fellow.  How  did  he  come  to 
do  it?" 

Alice  concluded  not  to  honor  the  other  girl  by  bringing 
208 


THE    OUTLAW 

her  into  the  discussion.     "  Oh,  it  is  hard  to  say.    Need  of 
money,  I  suppose.     Poor  boy,  I  pity  him." 

"  They '11  get  him,  sure.  They  can  follow  his  tracks  as 
easy  as  anything.  I  don't  suppose  I  ought  to  say  it,  but 
I  hope  he'll  get  away.  Don't  you?" 

"Yes,  I  do!"  was  Alice's  fervent  response.  "But 
see!  it's  snowing  again.  It  may  cover  his  trail." 

Peggy  went  to  the  door  and  gazed  long  and  keenly  at 
the  peaks.  When  she  turned  her  face  was  solemn. 
"Allie,  this  is  getting  pretty  serious  for  us.  If  the  men 
don't  come  to-day  they  may  get  snowed  up  entirely." 

Alice  stifled  a  wail.  "Oh,  if  I  were  only  able  to  walk 
I  wouldn't  mind.  I  could  help  gather  fuel  and  keep 
the  fire  going." 

"There's  plenty  of  wood  for  another  day,  but  I'm 
worried  about  the  men.  Suppose  they  are  up  on  that 
glacier?" 

"I'm  not  worried  about  them,  but  I  know  they  are 
worrying  about  us.  They'll  surely  start  back  this 
morning;  but  they  may  not  be  able  to  reach  us  till 
night." 

The  light  of  the  morning  had  turned  gray  and  feeble. 
The  air  was  still  and  the  forest  soundless,  save  now  and 
then  when  a  snow-laden  branch  creaked  with  its  bur 
den. 

There  was  something  majestic  as  well  as  menacing  in 
this  all-pervading  solemn  hush. 

Peggy  went  about  her  duties  as  cheerfully  as  she 
could,  but  with  a  wider  knowledge  of  mountaineering 
than  Alice  had.  She  was  at  heart  quite  terrified.  ' '  We're 
going  to  miss  our  nice  outlaw,"  she  remarked.  "He 
was  so  effective  as  a  purveyor  of  wood."  Then  she 
went  to  the  door  and  looked  out.  "That  sheriff  will 
never  keep  his  trail,"  she  said. 

209 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

"What's  that?"  suddenly  asked  Alice. 

Both  listened.  "I  hear  it!"  whispered  Peggy.  "It's 
a  horse — there!  Some  one  spoke." 

"It's  Freeman!"  Alice  joyously  called  out.  "Coo- 
hoo!" 

No  one  replied,  and  Peggy,  rushing  to  the  door,  met 
the  young  outlaw,  who  appeared  on  the  threshold  with 
stern,  set  face. 

"Who's  been  here  since  I  left?     Your  party?" 

Peggy  recoiled  in  surprise  and  alarm,  and  Alice  cried 
out,  "Why  did  you  come  back?" 

"Two  men  on  horseback  have  been  here  since  I  left. 
Who  were  they?"  His  voice  was  full  of  haste. 

"One  of  them  said — he  was  the — the  sheriff,"  Alice 
replied,  faintly. 

He  smiled  then,  a  kind  of  terrifying  humor  in  his  eyes. 
"Well,  the  chances  are  he  knew.  They  took  my  trail, 
of  course,  and  left  in  a  hurry.  Expected  to  overhaul 
me  on  the  summit.  They've  got  their  work  cut  out 
for  'em." 

"How  did  they  miss  you?"  the  girl  asked,  huskily. 

"Well,  you  see,  when  I  got  up  where  I  could  view  the 
sky  I  was  dead  sure  we  were  in  for  a  whooping  big  snow 
storm,  and  I  just  couldn't  leave  you  girls  up  here  all 
alone,  so  I  struck  right  down  the  canon  in  the  bed  of  the 
creek — the  short  cut.  I  don't  like  to  back- trail,  anyway; 
it's  a  bad  habit  to  get  into.  I  like  to  leave  as  blind  a 
trail  as  I  can."  His  face  lighted  up,  grew  boyish  again. 
"They're  sure  up  against  a  cold  proposition  about  now. 
They'll  lose  my  track  among  the  rocks,  but  they'll  fig 
ure  I've  hustled  right  on  over  into  Pine  Creek,  and  if 
they  don't  freeze  to  death  in  the  pass  they'll  come  out 
at  Glover's  hay-meadow-  to-morrow  night.  How's  the 
wood-pile  holding  out?" 

210 


THE    OUTLAW 

" Please  go!"  cried  Alice.  "Take  your  chance  now 
and  hurry  away." 

"I'm  not  used  to  leaving  women  in  such  a  fix.  The 
moment  I  saw  that  the  blizzard  was  beginning  all  over 
again  I  turned  back." 

"You  haven't  had  any  breakfast?"  said  Peggy. 

"Nothing  to  speak  of,"  he  replied,  dryly.  "I  wasn't 
thinking  of  breakfast  when  I  pulled  out." 

"I'll  get  you  some." 

Alice  could  not  throw  off  the  burden  of  his  danger. 
"What  will  you  do  when  my  people  return?" 

"I  don't  know — trust  to  luck." 

"You  are  very  foolish.  They  are  certain  to  come 
to-day." 

"They  won't  know  who  I  am  if  you  women  don't  give 
me  away." 

"I'm  sure  Freeman — Professor  Ward — will  know  you, 
for  he  also  saw  the  placard." 

"That's  no  sign.  Suppose  he  does — maybe  he  won't 
think  it  is  his  job  to  interfere.  Anyway"- — here  his  voice 
became  decisive — "I  won't  leave  you  in  such  a  fix  as 
this."  His  eyes  spoke  to  her  of  that  which  his  tongue 
could  not  utter.  "I  wanted  an  excuse  to  come  back, 
anyway,"  he  concluded.  "No  matter  what  comes  now, 
my  job  is  here  to  protect  you." 

She  did  not  rebuke  him,  and  Peggy — though  she  won 
dered  at  his  tone — was  too  grateful  for  his  presence  even 
to  question  Alice's  motive  in  permitting  such  remarks. 

As  for  Alice,  she  felt  herself  more  and  more  involved 
in  the  tangled  skein  of  his  mysterious  life.  His  sudden 
and  reckless  abandonment  of  the  old  love  which  had 
ruined  him,  and  the  new  and  equally  irrational  regard 
which  he  now  professed  for  her,  filled  her  with  a  delicious 
marveling, 

2IJ 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

He  appealed  to  a  woman's  imagination.  He  had  the 
spice  of  the  unknown.  In  her  relationship  with  Ward 
there  was  no  danger,  no  mystery — his  courtship  narrow 
ly  escaped  being  commonplace.  She  had  accepted  his 
attentions  arid  expected  to  marry  him,  and  yet  the 
thought  of  the  union  produced,  at  its  warmest,  merely  a 
glow  of  comfort,  a  sense  of  security,  whereas  the  hint  of 
being  loved  and  protected  by  this  Rob  Roy  of  the  hills, 
this  reckless  Rough  Rider  of  the  wilderness,  was  instinct 
with  romance.  Of  course  his  devotion  was  a  crazy 
folly,  and  yet,  lying  there  in  her  rough  bunk,  with  an 
impenetrable  wall  of  snow  shutting  out  the  rest  of  the 
world,  it  was  hard  not  to  feel  that  this  man  and  his 
future  had  become  an  inescapable  part  of  her  life — a  part 
which  grew  in  danger  and  in  charm  from  hour  to  hour. 

Full  two  miles  above  the  level  of  her  own  home,  sur 
rounded  by  peaks  unscalably  wild  and  lonely,  deserted 
by  those  who  should  care  for  her,  was  it  strange  that  she 
should  return  this  man's  adoring  gaze  with  something 
of  the  primal  woman's  gratitude  and  submission? 

The  noon  darkened  into  dusk  as  they  talked,  slowly, 
with  long  pauses,  and  one  by  one  the  stirring  facts  of  the 
rover's  life  came  out.  From  his  boyhood  he  had  always 
done  the  reckless  thing.  He  had  known  no  restraint 
till,  as  a  member  of  the  Rough  Riders,  he  yielded  a 
partial  obedience  to  his  commanders.  When  the  ex 
citement  of  the  campaigns  was  over  he  had  deserted 
and  gone  back  to  the  round-up  wagon  and  the  camp-fire. 

In  the  midst  of  his  confidences  he  maintained  a  reserve 
about  his  family  which  showed  more  self-mastery  than 
anything  else  about  him.  That  he  was  the  black  sheep 
of  an  honorable  flock  became  increasingly  evident.  He 
had  been  the  kind  of  lad  who  finds  in  the  West  a  fine 
field  for  daredevil  adventure.  And  yet  there  were 

212 


THE   OUTLAW 

unstirred  deeps  in  the  man.  He  was  curious  about  a 
small  book  which  Alice  kept  upon  her  bed,  and  which 
she  read  from  time  to  time  with  serene  meditation  on 
her  face. 

"What  is  that?"  he  asked. 

"My  Bible." 

"Can  I  see  it?" 

"Certainly." 

He  took  it  carefully  and  read  the  title  on  the  back, 
then  turned  a  few  of  the  leaves.  "I'm  not  much  on 
reading,"  he  said,  "but  I've  got  a  sister  that  sends  me 
tracts,  and  the  like."  He  returned  to  the  fly-leaf.  "Is 
this  your  name?" 

"Yes." 

'*' Alice  Mansfield,'"  he  read;  "beautiful  name! 
'New  York  City'!  That's  pretty  near  the  other  side  of 
the  world  to  me."  He  studied  the  address  with  intent 
look.  "I'd  like  to  buy  this  book.  How  much  will  you 
take  for  it?" 

"I'll  trade  it  for  your  weapon,"  she  replied. 

He  looked  at  her  narrowly.  "You  mean  something 
by  that.  I  reckon  I  follow  you.  No,  I  can't  do  that — 
not  now.  If  I  get  into  business  over  the  line  I'll  disarm, 
but  in  this  country  a  fellow  needs  to  be  protected.  I 
want  this  book!" 

"For  the  fly-leaf?" 

He  smiled  in  return.     "You've  hit  it." 

She  hesitated.  "I'll  give  you  the  book  if  you'll 
promise  to  read  it." 

He  clapped  the  covers  together  and  put  the  volume 
in  his  pocket.  "It's  mine!  I'll  read  every  word  of  it, 
if  it  takes  an  age,  and  here's  my  hand  on  it." 

She  gave  him  her  hand,  and  in  this  clasp  something 
came  to  her  from  his  clutching  fingers  which  sobered 

213 


THEY   OF   THE   HIGH   TRAILS 

her.  She  drew  her  hand  away  hastily  and  said:  "If 
you  read  that  book — and  think  about  it — it  will  change 
your  whole  world." 

He,  too,  lost  his  brightness.  "Well,  I'm  not  so  anxious 
to  keep  up  this  kind  of  life.  But  if  anybody  changes 
me  it  will  be  you." 

"Hush!"  she  warned  with  lifted  finger. 

He  fell  back,  and  after  a  little  silence  went  out  to  wait 
upon  the  fire. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  said  Peggy,  reprovingly,  "that 
you're  too  gracious  with  this  mountaineer;  he's  getting 
presumptuous. ' ' 

' '  He  doesn't  mean  to  be.  It's  his  unsophisticated  way. 
Anyhow,  we  can't  afford  to  be  captious  to  our  host." 

"That's  true,"  admitted  Peggy.  . 

The  night  shut  down  with  the  snow  still  falling,  but 
with  a  growing  chill  in  the  air. 

"The  flakes  are  finer,"  the  outlaw  announced,  as  he 
came  in  a  little  later.  "That  is  a  good  sign.  It  is  grow 
ing  colder  and  the  wind  is  changing.  It  will  pinch  hard 
before  sun-up,  and  the  worst  of  it,  there's  no  way  to 
warm  the  cabin.  We  can't  have  the  door  open  to-night. 
I'm  worried  about  you,"  he  said  to  Alice.  "If  only 
those  chumps  had  left  a  man-size  ax!" 

The  two  women  understood  that  this  night  was  to 
bring  them  into  closer  intimacy  with  the  stranger  than 
before.  He  could  not  remain  outdoors,  and  though  they 
now  knew  something  of  his  desperate  character,  they  had 
no  fear  of  him.  He  had  shown  his  chivalry.  No  one 
could  have  been  more  considerate  of  them,  for  he  ab 
sented  himself  at  Peggy's  request  instantly  and  with 
out  suggestion  of  jocularity,  and  when  he  came  in  and 
found  them  both  in  bed  he  said: 

"I  reckon  I'll  not  make  down  to-night — you'll  need 
214 


THE   OUTLAW 

all  your  blankets  before  morning";  and  thereupon, 
without  weighing  their  protests,  proceeded  to  spread 
the  extra  cover  over  them. 

Alice  looked  up  at  him  in  the  dim  light  of  the  candle 
and  softly  asked:  "What  will  you  do?  You  will  suffer 
with  cold!" 

"Don't  worry  about  me;  I'm  an  old  campaigner.  I 
still  have  a  blanket  to  wrap  around  my  shoulders.  I'll 
snooze  in  a  corner.  If  you  hear  me  moving  around 
don't  be  worried;  I'm  hired  to  keep  the  fire  going  even 
if  it  doesn't  do  us  much  good  inside." 

The  chill  deepened.  The  wind  began  to  roar,  and 
great  masses  of  snow,  dislodged  from  the  tall  trees 
above  the  cabin,  fell  upon  its  roof  with  sounds  like  those 
of  soft,  slow  footfalls.  Strange  noises  of  creaking  and 
groaning  and  rasping  penetrated  to  Alice's  ears,  and  she 
cowered  half  in  fear,  half  in  joy  of  her  shelter  and  her 
male  protector.  Men  were  fine  animals  for  the  wild. 

She  fell  asleep  at  last,  seeing  her  knight's  dim  form 
propped  against  the  wall,  wrapped  in  a  blanket  Indian- 
wise,  his  head  bowed  over  the  book  she  had  given  him, 
a  candle  smoking  in  his  hand. 

She  woke  when  he  rose  to  feed  the  fire,  and  the  current 
of  cold  air  which  swept  in  caused  her  to  cover  her  mouth 
with  the  blanket.  He  turned  toward  her. 

"It's  all  over  for  sure,  this  time,"  he  said.  "It's  cold 
and  goin'  to  be  colder.  How  are  you  standing  it  ?  If  your 
feet  are  cold  I  can  heat  a  stone.  How  is  the  hurt  foot?" 
He  drew  near  and  looked  down  upon  her  anxiously. 

"Very  much  easier,  thank  you." 

"I'm  mighty  glad  of  that.  I  wish  I  could  take  the 
pain  all  on  myself." 

"You  have  troubles  of  your  own,"  she  answered,  as 
lightly  as  she  could. 

15  2I5 


THEY   OF   THE   HIGH   TRAILS 

"That's  true,  too,"  he  agreed  in  the  same  tone.  "So 
many  that  a  little  one  more  or  less  wouldn't  count." 

"Do  you  call  my  wound  little?" 

"I  meant  the  foot  was  little — " 

She  checked  him. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  make  light  of  it.  It  sure  is  no 
joke."  He  added,  "I've  made  a  start  on  the  book." 

"How  do  you  like  it?" 

"I  don't  know  yet,"  he  answered,  and  went  back  to 
his  corner. 

She  snuggled  under  her  warm  quilts  again,  remorseful, 
yet  not  daring  to  suggest  a  return  of  the  blanket  he  had 
lent.  When  she  woke  again  he  was  on  his  feet,  swing 
ing  his  arms  silently.  His  candle  had  gone  out,  but  a 
faint  light  was  showing  in  the  room. 

"Is  it  morning?"  she  asked. 

"Just  about,"  he  replied,  stretching  like  a  cat. 

The  dawn  came  gloriously.  The  sun  in  far-splashing 
splendor  slanted  from  peak  to  peak,  painting  purple 
shadows  on  the  snow  and  warming  the  boles  of  the  tall 
trees  till  they  shone  like  fretted  gold.  The  jays  cried 
out  as  if  in  exultation  of  the  ending  of  the  tempest,  arid 
the  small  stream  sang  over  its  icy  pebbles  with  resolute 
cheer.  It  was  a  land  to  fill  a  poet  with  awe  and  ec 
static  praise — a  radiant,  imperial,  and  merciless  land 
scape.  Trackless,  almost  soundless,  the  mountain  world 
lay  waiting  for  the  alchemy  of  the  sun. 


VI 

The  morning  was  well  advanced  when  a  far,  faint 
halloo  broke  through  the  silence  of  the  valley.  /The 
ranger  stood  like  a  statue,  while  Peggy  cried  out: 

"It's  one  of  our  men!" 

216 


THE   OUTLAW 

Alice  turned  to  the  outlaw  with  anxious  face.  "If 
it's  the  sheriff  stay  in  here  with  me.  Let  me  plead  for 
you.  I  want  him  to  know  what  you've  done  for  us." 

The  look  that  came  upon  his  face  turned  her  cold 
with  fear.  "If  it  is  the  sheriff—  He  did  not  finish, 
but  she  understood. 

The  halloo  sounded  nearer  and  the  outlaw's  face 
lightened.  "It's  one  of  your  party.  He  is  coming  up 
from  below." 

Impatiently  they  waited  for  the  new-comer  to  appear, 
and  though  he  seemed  to  draw  nearer  at  every  shout, 
his  progress  was  very  slow.  At  last  the  man  appeared 
on  the  opposite  bank  of  the  stream.  He  was  covered 
with  snow  and  stumbling  along  like  a  man  half  dead 
with  hunger  and  fatigue. 

"Why,  it's  Gage!"  exclaimed  Peggy. 

It  was  indeed  the  old  hunter,  and  as  he  drew  near  his 
gaunt  and  bloodless  face  was  like  that  of  a  starved  and 
hunted  animal.  His  first  word  was  an  anxious  inquiry, 
"How  are  ye?" 

"All  well,"  Peggy  answered. 

"And  the  crippled  girl?" 

"Doing  nicely.  Thanks  to  Mr.  Smith  here,  we  did 
not  freeze.  Are  you  hungry?" 

The  guide  looked  upon  the  outlaw  with  glazed,  pro 
truding  eyes.  "Hungry?  I'm  done.  I've  been  wal- 
lerin'  in  the  snow  all  night  and  I'm  just  about  all  in." 

"Where  are  the  others?"  called  Alice  from  her 
bed. 

Gage  staggered  to  the  door.  "They're  up  at  timber- 
line.  I  left  them  day  before  yesterday.  I  tried  to  get 
here,  but  I  lost  my  bearin's  and  got  on  the  wrong  side  o' 
the  creek.  'Pears  like  I  kept  on  the  wrong  side  o'  the 
hog-back,  t  Then  my  horse  gave  out,  and  that  set  me 

217 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

afoot.  I  was  plum  scared  to  death  about  you  folks. 
I  sure  was." 

Peggy  put  some  food  before  him  and  ordered  him  into 
silence.  ''Talk  later,"  she  said. 

The  outlaw  turned  to  Alice.  "That  explains  it. 
Your  Professor  Ward  trusted  to  this  man  to  take 
care  of  you  and  stayed  in  camp.  You  can't  blame 
him." 

Gage  seemed  to  have  suddenly  become  old,  almost 
childish.  "  I  never  was  lost  before,"  he  muttered,  sadly. 
"I  reckon  something  must  have  went  wrong  in  my 
head.  'Pears  like  I'm  gettin'  old  and  foolish." 

Alice  exchanged  glances  with  the  outlaw.  It  was 
plain  that  he  was  in  no  danger  from  this  dazed  and 
weakened  old  man  who  could  think  of  nothing  but  the 
loss  of  his  sense  of  direction. 

As  the  day  advanced  the  sun  burned  clear.  At  noon 
it  was  warm  enough  to  leave  the  door  open,  and  Alice, 
catching  glimpses  of  the  flaming  world  of  silver  and 
purple  and  gold,  was  filled  with  a  desire  to  quit  her  dark 
corner. 

"I'm  going  to  get  up!"  she  exclaimed.  "I  won't  lie 
here  any  longer." 

"Don't  try  it!"  protested  Peggy. 

"I'm  going  to  do  it!"  she  insisted.  "I  can  hobble 
to  the  door  if  you  help  me." 

" I'll  carry  you,"  said  the  outlaw.  "Wrap  her  up  and 
I'll  get  her  a  seat." 

And  so,  while  Mrs.  Adams  wrapped  her  patient  in  a 
blanket,  the  outlaw  dragged  one  of  the  rough,  ax-hewn 
benches  to  the  door  and  covered  it  with  blankets.  He 
put  a  stone  to  heat  and  then  re-entered  just  as  Alice,  sup 
ported  by  Peggy,  was  setting  foot  to  the  floor.  Swiftly, 
unhesitating,  and  very  tenderly  he  put  his  arms  about 

218 


THE   OUTLAW 

her  and  lifted  her  to  the  bench  in  the  doorway  before 
the  fire. 

It  was  so  sweet  to  feel  that  wondrous  body  in  his  arms. 
His  daring  to  do  it  surprised  her,  but  her  own  silent 
acquiescence,  and  the  shiver  of  pleasure  which  came  with 
the  embarrassment  of  it,  confused  and  troubled  her. 

"That's  better,"  he  said  as  he  dropped  to  the  ground 
and  drew  the  blankets  close  about  her  feet.  "I'll  have 
a  hot  stone  for  you  in  a  minute." 

He  went  about  these  ministrations  with  an  inward 
ecstasy  which  shone  in  his  eyes  and  trembled  in  his 
voice.  But  as  she  furtively  studied  his  face  and  ob 
served  the  tremor  of  his  hands  in  tender  ministration 
she  lost  all  fear  of  him. 

After  three  days  in  her  dark  corner  of  the  hut  the  sun 
shine  was  wondrously  inspiring  to  the  girl,  although  the 
landscape  on  which  she  gazed  was  white  and  wild  as 
December.  It  was  incredible  that  only  a  few  hours  lay 
between  the  flower-strewn  valley  of  her  accident  and  this 
silent  and  desolate,  yet  beautiful,  wilderness  of  snow. 
And  so,  as  she  looked  into  the  eyes  of  the  outlaw,  it 
seemed  as  though  she  had  known  him  from  spring  to 
winter,  and  her  wish  to  help  him  grew  with  every  hour 
of  their  acquaintanceship. 

She  planned  his  defense  before  Ward  and  Adams. 
"When  they  know  how  kind  and  helpful  he  has  been 
they  can  but  condone  his  one  rash  deed,"  she  argued 
in  conclusion. 

He  was  sitting  at  her  feet,  careless  of  time,  the  law, 
content  with  her  nearness,  and  mindful  only  of  her 
comfort,  when  a  distant  rifle-shot  brought  him  to  his 
feet  with  the  swiftness  of  the  startled  stag. 

"That's  your  expedition,"  he  said,  "or  some  one  who 
needs  help." 

219 


THEY   OF   THE   HIGH   TRAILS 

Again  the  shots  rang  out,  one,  two,  three — one,  two, 
three.  "It's  a  signal!  It's  your  party!" 

Peggy  uttered  a  cry  of  joy  and  rushed  outside,  but 
Alice  turned  an  unquiet  gaze  on  the  outlaw.  "You'd 
better  fly!" 

"  What  is  the  use?"  he  answered,  bitterly.  " The  snow 
is  so  deep  there  is  no  show  to  cross  the  range,  and  my 
horse  is  weak  and  hungry." 

Gage  appeared  at  the  door.  "Lemme  take  your  gun, 
stranger;  I  want  to  answer  the  signal." 

"Where's  your  own?" 

"I  left  it  on  my  horse,"  the  old  man  answered,  sheep 
ishly. 

The  young  fellow  looked  at  Alice  with  a  keen  glitter 
in  his  eyes.  "I'll  make  answer  myself,"  he  said;  "I'm 
very  particular  about  my  barkers." 

Alice,  as  she  heard  his  revolver's  answering  word  leap 
into  the  silent  air  and  bound  and  rebound  along  the 
cliffs,  was  filled  with  a  sudden  fear  that  the  sheriff  might 
be  guided  back  by  the  sound — and  this  indeed  the  fugitive 
himself  remarked  as  he  came  back  to  his  seat  beside  her. 

"If  he's  anywhere  on  this  side  of  the  divide  he'll  sure 
come  back.  But  I've  done  my  best.  The  Lord  God 
Almighty  has  dropped  the  snow  down  here  and  shut 
me  in  with  you,  and  I'm  not  complaining." 

There  was  no  answer  to  be  made  to  this  fatalism  of 
utterance,  and  none  to  the  worship  of  his  eyes. 

"Lift  me  up!"  commanded  Alice;  "I  want  to  look 
out  and  see  if  I  can  see  anybody." 

The  outlaw  took  her  in  his  arms,  supporting  her  in 
the  threshold  in  order  that  she  might  see  over  the  vast 
sea  of  white.  But  no  human  being  was  to  be  seen. 

"Take  me  back — inside,"  Alice  said  to  the  man  who 
had  her  in  his  arms.  "I  feel  cold  here." 

220 


THE   OUTLAW 

Once  again,  and  with  a  feeling  that  it  was,  perhaps, 
for  the  last  time,  he  carried  her  back  to  her  bench  and 
re-enveloped  her  in  her  blankets. 

"Stay  here  with  me  now,"  she  whispered  to  him,  as 
she  looked  up  into  his  face. 

And  the  outlaw,  filled  with  gladness  and  pride,  threw 
himself  on  the  floor  beside  her. 


VII 

The  signal  pistol-shots  came  nearer  and  nearer,  but 
very  slowly;  and  as  the  outlaw  sat  beside  Alice's  couch 
he  took  her  Bible  from  his  pocket  and  said : 

"I  made  a  stab  at  reading  this  last  night." 

She  smiled.     "I  saw  you.     How  did  you  like  it?" 

"I  didn't  exactly  get  aboard  someway." 

"What  was  the  trouble?" 

"I  guess  it  was  because  I  kept  thinking  of  you — and 
my  own  place  in  the  game.  Three  days  ago  I  didn't  care 
what  became  of  me,  but  now  I  want  a  chance.  I  don't 
see  any  chance  coming  my  way,  but  if  I  had  it  I'd  make 
use  of  it."  He  looked  at  her  a  moment  in  silence,  then 
with  sudden  intensity  broke  forth.  "  Do  you  know  what 
you  mean  to  me?  When  I  look  at  your  face  and  eyes 
I'm  crazy  hungry  for  you." 

She  shrank  from  him  and  called  to  Mrs.  Adams. 

He  went  on.  "Oh,  you  needn't  be  afraid.  I  just 
wanted  to  say  it,  that's  all.  If  there  was  only  some 
other  way  to  straighten  myself — but  I  can't  go  to  jail. 
I  can't  stand  up  to  be  clipped  like  a  poodle-dog,  then 
put  on  striped  clothing  and  walk  lock-step — I  can't  do 
it!  They'll  put  me  in  for  ten  years.  I'd  be  old  when 
I  got  out."  He  shuddered.  "No,  I  won't  do  that! 
I'd  rather  die  here  in  the  hills." 


THEY    OF   THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

She  grew  white  in  sympathy.  "It  is  a  frightful  price 
to  pay  for  one  insane  act,  and  yet — crime  should  be 
punished." 

"I'm  getting  my  punishment  now,"  he  replied,  with 
darkly  brooding  glance.  "There's  a  good  old  man  and 
two  women,  my  sisters,  waitin'  for  me  down  the  slope. 
If  I  could  reach  home  I'd  try  to  live  straight,  but  it's  a 
long  and  dangerous  trail  between  here  and  there." 

Peggy  now  ran  into  the  cabin.  "It's  the  expedition," 
she  announced.  "I  can  see  Freeman." 

"I  reckon  this  is  where  I  get  off,"  said  the  outlaw  in 
a  tone  of  mingled  relief  and  dismay. 

"No,  no!"  Alice  entreated.  "Stay  till  Freeman 
comes.  He  will  help  you.  Let  me  explain  to  him.  I 
know  he  will  not  betray  you." 

He  looked  at  her  again  with  that  intent,  longing  wor 
ship  in  his  eyes,  and  answered,  "I  accept  the  chance 
for  the  sake  of  one  more  hour  with  you." 

The  outlaw  stepped  to  the  door,  and  he  saw  a  man  at 
the  head  of  his  train  mid-leg  deep  in  snow,  leading  his 
horse,  breaking  the  way  for  his  followers,  who  were  all 
on  foot,  crawling,  stumbling,  and  twisting  among  the 
down-timber,  unmindful  of  the  old  trail. 

At  sight  of  that  big  and  resolute  leader,  with  flowing 
black  beard  and  ruddy  face,  the  outlaw  was  filled  with 
jealous  sadness.  To  find  Ward  a  man  of  superb  physi 
cal  prowess,  the  kind  that  measures  peaks  for  the  fun  of 
it,  was  disturbing,  and  without  defining  his  feeling  he 
was  plunged  into  melancholy  musing.  And  when  later 
Ward  entered,  and,  stooping  over  the  couch,  kissed 
Alice,  the  end  of  his  idyl  seemed  to  him  announced. 

In  the  bustle  of  the  moment,  in  the  interchange  of 
anxious,  hurried  inquiries,  the  outlaw  stood  aside  in  the 
corner,  unnoticed,  till  Alice  caught  Ward's  arm  and  said : 

222 


THE   OUTLAW 

"  Freeman,  this  is  Mr.  Smith,  to  whom  we  owe  a  great 
deal.  He  has  taken  the  utmost  care  of  us.  We  would 
have  frozen  but  for  him." 

Ward  shook  hands  with  the  outlaw,  but  wonderingly 
asked  of  Alice,  "But  where  was  Gage?" 

The  outlaw  answered,  "Gage  got  lost  and  only  turned 
up  a  couple  of  hours  ago." 

Ward  turned  to  Alice  in  horror.  "Good  Lord!  And 
you  were  here  alone — crippled — in  this  storm?" 

"No — that's  what  I'm  telling  you.  Mr.  Smith  came 
and  took  care  of  us.  He  brought  our  wood,  he  cooked 
for  us,  he  kept  our  fire  going.  He  gave  up  his  bed, 
even  his  blankets,  for  us.  You  should  be  very  generous 
to  him." 

Ward  again  reached  a  hearty  hand.  "I'm  tremen 
dously  obliged  to  you." 

The  outlaw  quailed  under  all  this  praise.  "There 
was  mighty  little  to  do,"  he  answered.  "I  only  shared 
my  fire  with  them." 

Ward  studied  him  closer.     "Haven't  we  met  before?" 

"No,  I  reckon  not." 

"I'm  quite  sure  I've  seen  you  somewhere.  What  are 
you  doing  up  in  here?" 

Alice  interposed.     "What  are  we  going  to  do?" 

Ward  turned  to  the  outlaw.  "What  would  you 
advise?  I've  only  had  one  idea,  and  that  was  to  reach 
this  cabin.  Now  what  would  you  do?" 

The  outlaw  was  ready.  "I  would  send  a  part  of  the 
men  with  the  horses  down  the  valley  to  grass  and  I'd 
wait  here  till  Miss  Mansfield  is  able  to  ride." 

"Will  this  snow  go  off?" 

"That's  my  notion." 

"It's  certain  we  can't  camp  here — the  horses  must 
have  grass." 

223 


THEY   OF    THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

"I'll  be  able  to  ride  in  a  day  or  two,"  Alice  said, 
bravely. 

"We  could  frame  up  a  portable  bed  and  carry  you," 
suggested  the  outlaw;  "but  it  can't  be  done  to-night, 
so  you'd  better  send  your  outfit  down  to  the  marsh  to 
camp.  The  horses  are  worn  out  and  so  are  the  men." 

"Will  you  guide  them  to  grass  and  help  them  find 
shelter?" 

The  outlaw  hesitated  for  an  instant,  and  Alice  inter 
posed:  "No,  no!  let  Gage  do  that.  I  want  Mr.  Smith 
to  remain  here." 

Ward  perceived  in  her  entreaty  something  of  anxiety 
and  fear,  and  after  the  men  and  horses  had  started  down 
the*slope  he  turned  to  the  outlaw  and  said:  "I'm  mighty 
grateful  to  you,  Mr.  Smith.  It  must  have  surprised  you 
to  find  these  women  here." 

The  outlaw  dryly  replied,  "It  did!" 

Alice  added:  "It  was  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  too; 
but  Mr.  Smith  was  very  nice  about  it.  He  slept  out 
doors  without  a  word  of  complaint." 

Ward  had  figured  the  situation  to  conclusion:  "Smith 
is  a  poacher,"  and  though  he  had  a  savage  dislike  of 
these  illicit  game-slaughterers,  he  could  not  but  be  glad 
of  the  presence  of  this  particular  outlay/,  and  resolved  to 
overlook  his  trade  in  gratitude  for  his  cabin  and  service. 

The  outlaw  helped  Adams  and  Ward  to  clear  away  the 
snow  for  a  tent,  and  AJice,  seeing  the  three  men  thus 
amicably  joined  in  her  defense,  could  not  find  it  in  her 
heart  to  condemn  one  of  them  as  a  criminal.  Here  in 
the  white  isolation  of  the  peaks  the  question  of  crime 
and  its  punishment  became  personal.  To  have  this  man's 
fate  in  her  hand  was  like  grasping  the  executioner's  sword 
for  herself. 

"If  women  had  to  punish  criminals  themselves,  with 
224 


THE   OUTLAW 

their  own  hand,"  she  asked,  "how  many  of  them  would 
do  it?" 

Peggy  came  in  and  whispered  to  her:  "No  one  else 
seems  to  have  recognized  him.  He  may  get  away 
safely.  I  hope  he  will.  Shall  we  tell  the  men  who  he 
is?" 

"Yes,  we  shall  have  to  do  that  soon,  but  I'm  afraid 
they  won't  take  the  sentimental  view  of  him  that  we  do. 
I  tremble  to  think  of  what  they  will  do  when  they 
know." 

Ward  explained  to  Adams:  "Our  friend  Smith  here 
is  a  poacher — but  as  our  account  stands  I  don't  feel  it 
my  duty  to  report  him,  do  you?" 

"No;  Peggy  tells  me  he  has  acted  like  a  gentleman 
all  through." 

In  this  spirit  they  made  themselves  comfortable  for 
the  night. 

The  sun  set  gloriously,  but  the  air  bit  ever  sharper, 
and  while  Peggy  went  about  her  cooking,  assisted  by 
her  husband  and  the  outlaw,  Alice  pulled  Ward  down 
to  her  bedside  and  hurriedly  began: 

"You  remember  that  placard  we  read  in  the  station 
— the  one  about  the  train-robber?" 

"Yes!" 

"Well,  this  is  the  man— our  Mr.  Smith." 

Ward  looked  at  her  a  moment  with  reflective  eyes, 
then  exclaimed:  "You're  right!  I  thought  I'd  seen 
him  somewhere." 

"And  the  sheriff  is  after  him.  He  was  here  yester 
day  morning." 

"Here?" 

"Yes.  You  see,  Mr.  Smith  stayed  with  us  till  he 
thought  the  storm  was  over,  then  rode  away,  intending 
to  cross  the  divide,  but  when  the  snow  began  again  he 

225 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

turned  back.  He  said  he  couldn't  leave  us  alone.  He 
left  us  just  before  dawn,  and  four  or  five  hours  afterward 
the  sheriff  came.  Of  course  he  saw  the  poor  fellow'? 
trail  and  instantly  set  off  after  him." 

"But  why  didn't  they  meet?" 

"  Because  Mr.  Smith  came  back  a  different  way  and 
then  the  blizzard  came  on  and  covered  up  his  tracks. 
He  thinks  the  sheriff  has  gone  on  over  the  divide.  You 
must  help  him,  Freeman.  Help  him  to  get  away  and 
find  some  way  to  give  him  a  start.  Nobody  could  have 
been  more  considerate,  and  I  can't  see  him  taken  by 
these  cold-blooded  men  who  want  that  two  thousand 
dollars'  reward.  He  really  could  have  escaped,  only  for 
us.  He  came  back  to  protect  us." 

Ward  pondered.  "The  problem  is  not  so  easy  of 
solution.  A  train  robbery  is  a  pretty  serious  matter. 
I'm  very  grateful  to  him,  but  to  connive  at  his  escape  is 
itself  a  punishable  act.  Why  did  you  tell  me?  I  could 
have  passed  it  over — " 

"Because  I'm  afraid  the  sheriff  may  come  back  at 
any  moment." 

Ward's  brow  was  troubled.  "I  could  ignore  his 
deed  and  pretend  not  to  know  who  he  is,  but  definitely 
to  assist  a  bandit  to  escape  is  a  very  serious  matter." 

"I  know  it  is;  but  remember  he  gave  up  his  chance 
to  cross  the  divide  in  order  to  keep  us  from  suffering." 

"I  wish  you  hadn't  told  me,"  he  repeated,  almost  in 
irritation.  "If  the  sheriff  only  keeps  on  over  the  range 
Smith  can  take  care  of  himself." 

As  the  outlaw  re-entered  the  cabin  Alice  acknowledged 
in  him  something  worth  a  woman  to  love.  In  the  older 
man  was  power,  security,  moral,  mental,  and  physical 
health,  the  qualities  her  reason  demanded  in  a  husband; 
but  in  the  other  was  grace  and  charm,  something  wildly 

226 


THE   OUTLAW 

admirable.  He  allured  as  the  warrior,  intrepid  and 
graceful,  allured  the  maiden,  as  the  forest  calls  the 
householder.  Something  primordial  and  splendid  and 
very  sweet  was  in  her  feeling  toward  him.  There  could 
be  no  peaceful  wedlock  there,  no  security  of  home,  no 
comfort,  only  the  exquisite  thrill  of  perilous  union,  the 
madness  of  a  few  short  weeks — perhaps  only  a  few 
swift  days  of  self-surrender,  and  then,  surely,  disaster 
and  despair.  To  yield  to  him  was  impossible,  and  yet 
the  thought  of  it  was  tantalizingly  sweet. 

When  she  looked  toward  Ward  she  perceived  herself 
sitting  serenely  in  matronly  grace  behind  a  shining 
coffee-urn  in  a  well-ordered,  highly  civilized  breakfast- 
room,  facing  a  most  considerate  husband  who  neverthe 
less  was  able  to  read  the  morning  paper  in  her  presence. 
When  she  thought  of  life  with  the  outlaw  all  was  dark, 
stormy,  confused,  and  yet  the  way  was  lit  by  his  adoring 
eyes.  A  magical  splendor  lay  in  the  impulse.  His  love, 
sudden  as  it  seemed,  was  real — she  was  certain  of  that. 
She  felt  the  burning  power,  the  conjury  of  its  flame,  and 
it  made  her  future  with  Ward,  at  the  moment,  seem 
dull  and  drab. 

"Why,  why  could  not  such  a  man  and  such  a  passion 
come  with  the  orderly  and  the  ethical?"  she  asked 
herself. 

At  the  best  he  was  fitted  only  for  the  mine  or  the 
ranch,  and  the  thought  of  life  in  a  lonely  valley,  even  with 
his  love  to  lighten  it,  made  her  shudder.  On  one  side 
she  was  a  very  practical  and  far-seeing  woman.  The 
instant  she  brought  her  reason  to  bear  on  the  problem 
she  perceived  that  any  further  acquaintance  with  this 
man  was  dangerous.  They  must  part  here  at  this 
moment,  and  yet  she  could  not  let  him  go  without  in 
some  way  making  him  feel  her  wish  to  help  him. 

227 


THEY    OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

VIII 

Ward  and  the  outlaw  were  discussing  plans  for  get 
ting  out  of  the  basin  when  Adams  came  in  to  say,  "A 
couple  of  other  weary  wanderers  are  turning  up." 

"The  sheriff!"  instantly  exclaimed  Alice,  her  face 
whitening  in  swift  dismay. 

In  that  moment  the  forester  was  transformed.  With  a 
weapon  in  his  hand  he  stood  aside,  his  eyes  on  the  door, 
a  scowl  of  battle  on  his  face.  He  resembled  a  wolf  with 
bared  fangs  ready  to  die  desperately. 

Ward,  quick  to  read  his  purpose,  interposed.  "  Wait !" 
he  commanded.  "Stay  here;  I'll  see  them.  Don't  be 
rash." 

As  he  passed  out  into  the  firelight  the  outlaw,  without 
relaxing  his  vigilance,  said  in  a  low  voice,  "Well,  girl,  I 
reckon  here's  where  I  say  good  night." 

"Don't  resist,"  she  pleaded.  "Don't  fight,  please! 
Please !  What  is  the  use  ?  Oh,  it's  too  horrible !  If  you 
resist  they  will  kill  you!" 

There  was  no  fear  in  his  voice  as  he  replied:  "They 
may  not;  I'm  handy  with  my  gun." 

She  was  breathless,  chilled  by  the  shadow  of  the  im 
pending  tragedy.  "But  that  would  be  worse.  To  kill 
them  would  only  stain  your  soul  the  deeper.  You  must 
not  fight!" 

"It's  self-defense." 

"But  they  are  officers  of  the  law." 

' '  No  matter ;  I  will  not  be  taken  alive. ' ' 

She  moaned  in  her  distress,  helplessly  wringing  her 
hands.  "O  God!  Why  should  I  be  witness  of  this?" 

"You  won't  be.  If  this  is  the  sheriff  I  am  going  to 
open  that  door  and  make  a  dash.  What  happens  will 
happen  outside.  You  need  not  see  it.  I'm  sorry  you 

228 


THE   OUTLAW 

have  to  hear  it.  But  I  give  you  my  word — if  you  must 
hear  something  I  will  see  to  it  that  you  hear  as  little  as 
possible." 

The  latch  clicked — he  stepped  back,  and  again  stood 
waiting,  silent,  rigid,  ready  to  act,  murderous  in  design. 

Mrs.  Adams  entered  quickly,  and,  closing  the  door 
behind  her,  hurriedly  whispered:  "It's  the  sheriff. 
Hide!  The  men  will  hold  them  as  long  as  they  can. 
Hide!" 

The  outlaw  looked  about  and  smiled.  "Where?"  he 
asked,  almost  humorously.  "I'm  not  a  squirrel." 

"Under  the  bunk.     See,  there  is  room." 

He  shook  his  head.  "No,  I  refuse  to  crawl.  I  won't 
sneak.  I  never  have.  I  take  'em  as  they  come." 

"For  my  sake,"  pleaded  Alice.  "I  can't  bear  to  see 
you  killed.  Hide  yourself.  Go  to  the  door,"  she  said 
to  Peggy.  "  Don't  let  them  in.  Tell  Freeman — "  She 
rose  and  stood  unsteadily,  forgetful  of  her  own  pain. 

Mrs.  Adams  urged  her  to  lie  down,  but  she  would  not. 
The  moments  passed  in  suspense  almost  too  great  to  be 
endured. 

"Listen!"  commanded  the  outlaw.  "They're  com 
ing  in." 

As  they  harkened  Ward's  voice  rose  clearly.  "You 
can't  miss  the  camp,"  he  was  saying,  as  if  speaking  to 
some  one  at  a  distance.  "Just  keep  the  trail  in  the 
snow  and  you'll  find  them.  I'm  sorry  we  can't  put  you 
up — but  you  see  how  it  is." 

"They're  going!"  exclaimed  Alice.  "Thank  God, 
they're  going!" 

"It  can't  be  they'll  go  without  searching  the  shack," 
•the  fugitive  muttered,  in  no  measure  relaxing  his  atti 
tude  of  watchful  menace.     "They're  playing  a  game 
on  us." 

229 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

Again  the  latch  clicked,  and  this  time  it  was  Ward 
who  confronted  the  outlaw's  revolver  mouth. 

"It's  all  right,"  Ward  called,  instantly  understanding 
the  situation.  "  They're  gone.  The  old  man  was  about 
played  out,  for  they've  been  fighting  snow  all  day,  but 
I  told  him  we  couldn't  take  care  of  them  here  and  they 
have  gone  on  down  to  the  camp.  He  thinks  you  got 
over  the  divide.  You  are  all  right  for  the  present." 

"They'll  come  back,"  replied  the  other.  "It  only 
puts  the  deal  off  a  few  hours.  They'll  return,  trailin' 
the  whole  camp  after  them.  What  can  I  do  ?  My  horse 
is  down  there  in  the  herd." 

"That's  bad,"  exclaimed  Ward.  " I  wonder  if  I  could 
get  him  for  you?" 

"If  I  had  him  he's  weak  and  hungry,  and  the  high 
places  are  feet  deep  in  drifts.  It  doesn't  signify.  I'm 
corralled  any  way  you  look  at  it,  and  the  only  thing  left 
is  to  fight." 

"There's  our  trail  to  the  glacier,"  Ward  musingly 
suggested;  "it's  a  pretty  deep  furrow — you  might  make 
it  that  way." 

A  spark  of  light  leaped  into  the  man's  eyes.  "How  far 
up  does  it  run?  Where  does  it  end?" 

"In  Glacier  Basin,  just  at  timber-line." 

The  outlaw  pondered,  speaking  his  thought  aloud. 
"From  there  across  to  the  Indian  reservation  there  isn't 
a  wolf  track.  .  .  .  It's  a  man's  job  crossing  there,  almost 
sure  death,  but  it's  my  only  show."  He  had  replaced 
his  weapon  in  his  belt  and  was  weighing  his  chance,  his 
eyes  fixed  on  Alice's  face.  To  leave  this  shelter,  this 
warm  circle  of  light,  this  sweet  girlish  presence,  and 
plunge  into  the  dark,  the  cold  and  the  snow,  was  hard. 
No  one  but  a  man  of  unconquerable  courage  would  have 
considered  it.  This  man  was  both  desperate  and  heroic. 

230 


THE   OUTLAW 

"It's  my  only  chance  and  I'll  take  it,"  he  said,  drawing 
his  breath  sharply.  "I'll  need  your  prayers,"  he  added, 
grimly,  with  eyes  that  saw  only  the  girl.  "  If  I  fail  you'll 
find  me  up  there.  I  carry  my  sleeping-powder  with 
me."  He  touched  his  revolver  as  he  spoke. 

Alice's  mind,  sweeping  out  over  that  desolate  expanse, 
had  a  moment's  vision  of  him  as  he  would  appear  toiling 
across  those  towering  cliffs,  minute  as  a  fly,  and  her 
heart  grew  small  and  sick. 

"Why  don't  you  stay  and  take  your  lawful  punish 
ment?"  she  asked.  "You  will  surely  perish  up  there 
in  the  cold.  Wait  for  sunlight  at  least." 

"I  am  ready  to  stay  and  to  die  here,  near  you,"  he 
replied,  with  a  significant  glance. 

"No,  no,  not  that!"  she  cried  out.  "Talk  to  him, 
Freeman;  persuade  him  to  give  himself  up.  I've  done 
my  best  to  influence  him.  Don't  let  him  uselessly 
sacrifice  himself." 

Ward  perceived  something  hidden  in  her  voice,  some 
emotion  which  was  more  than  terror,  deeper  than  pity, 
but  his  words  were  grave  and  kindly.  "It  is  a  frightful 
risk,  young  man,  but  the  trail  to  the  glacier  is  your  only 
open  road.  The  sheriff  is  tired.  Even  if  he  finds  out 
that  you  are  here  he  may  not  come  back  to-night.  He 
will  know  you  cannot  escape.  You  can't  stir  without 
leaving  a  telltale  mark.  If  you  could  only  get  below  the 
snow  on  the  west  slope — " 

"Whichever  trail  I  take  it's  good-by,"  interrupted  the 
fugitive,  still  addressing  Alice.  "If  there  was  any 
thing  to  live  for — if  you'd  say  the  word!" — she  knew 
what  he  meant — "I'd  stay  and  take  my  schooling." 
He  waited  a  moment,  and  she,  looking  from  his  asking 
face  to  Ward's  calm  brow,  could  not  utter  a  sound. 
What  could  she  promise?  The  outlaw's  tone  softened 
16  231 


THEY   OF   THE   HIGH   TRAILS 

to  entreaty.  "If  you'll  only  say  I  may  see  you  again 
on  the  other  side  of  the  range  'twill  keep  my  heart 
warm.  Can't  you  promise  me  that  ?  It's  mighty  little. ' ' 

He  was  going  to  almost  certain  death,  and  she  could 
not  refuse  this.  "You  may  write  to  me — "  she  faltered. 
"You  know  my  address — " 

He  struck  the  little  book  in  his  pocket.  "Yes,  I 
have  it  safe.  Then  I  may  see  you  again?" 

Alice,  supported  by  Mrs.  Adams,  unsteadily  rose. 
"Yes,  yes,  only  go.  They  are  coming  back!  I  can 
hear  them." 

He  took  her  hand.  "Good-by,"  he  said,  chokingly. 
"You've  given  me  heart."  He  bent  swiftly  and  kissed 
her  forehead.  "I'll  win!  You'll  hear  from  me." 

"Hurry!"  she  wildly  cried.    "I  hear  voices!" 

He  caught  up  his  hat  and  opened  the  door.  As  he 
faced  them  his  lips  were  resolute  and  his  eyes  glowing. 
"It's  only  good  night,"  he  said,  and  closed  the  door 
behind  him. 

' '  Hold !"  shouted  Ward.  ' '  You  must  take  some  food. ' ' 
He  tore  the  door  open.  "Wait — " 

Even  as  he  spoke  a  pistol-shot  resounded  through  the 
night.  It  cut  through  the-  deathly  silence  of  the  forest 
like  a  spiteful  curse,  and  was  answered  by  another — 
then,  after  a  short  pause,  a  swift-tearing  volley  followed. 

"They  are  killing  him!"  cried  Alice. 

They  brought  him  in  and  laid  him  at  her  feet.  He 
had  requested  this,  but  when  she  bent  to  p<  er  into  his 
face  he  had  gone  beyond  speech.  Limp  and  bloody  and 
motionless  he  lay,  with  eyes  of  unfathomable  regret  and 
longing,  staring  up  at  her,  and  as  the  men  stood  about 
with  uncovered  heads  she  stooped  to  him,  forgetful  of 
all  else;  knelt  to  lay  her  hand  upon  his  brow. 

232 


THE    OUTLAW 

"Poor  boy!  Poor  boy!"  she  said,  her  eyes  blinded 
with  tears. 

His  hand  stirred,  seeking  her  own,  and  she  took  it 
and  pressed  it  in  both  of  hers.  "Jesus  be  merciful!" 
she  prayed,  softly. 

He  smiled  faintly  in  acknowledgment  of  her  presence 
and  her  prayer,  and  in  this  consolation  died. 

Wonderingly,  with  imperious  frown,  she  rose  and 
confronted  the  sheriff.  "How  is  it  that  you  are  un 
hurt?  Did  he  not  fight?" 

"That's  what  I  can't  understand,  miss,"  he  an 
swered.  "He  fired  only  once,  and  then  into  the  air. 
Tears  like  he  wanted  to  die." 

Alice  understood.  His  thought  was  of  her.  "You 
shall  hear  as  little  as  possible,"  he  had  said. 

"And  you  killed  him — as  he  surrendered,"  she  ex 
claimed,  bitterly,  and  turned  toward  the  dead  man, 
whose  face  was  growing  very  peaceful  now,  and  with  a 
blinding  pain  in  her  eyes  she  bent  and  laid  a  final  caress 
ing  hand  upon  his  brow. 

As  she  faced  the  sheriff  again  she  said,  with  merciless 
severity:  "I'd  rather  be  in  his  place  than  yours."  Then, 
with  a  tired  droop  in  her  voice,  she  appealed  to  Ward: 
"Take  me  away  from  here.  I'm  tired  of  this  savage 
world." 


THE  LEASER 

— the  Underfoot  hay-roller  from  the 
prairies — still  tries  his  luck  in  some 
abandoned  tunnel — sternly  toiling  for 
his  sweetheart  far  away. 


VIII 
THE  LEASER 

THE  only  passenger  in  the  car  who  really  interested 
me  was  a  burly  young  fellow  who  sat  just  ahead  of 
me,  and  who  seemed  to  be  something  more  than  a  tourist, 
for  the  conductor  greeted  him  pleasantly  and  the  brake- 
man  shook  his  hand.  We  were  climbing  to  Cripple 
Creek  by  way  of  the  Short  Line,  but  as  "the  sceneries" 
were  all  familiar  to  me,  I  was  able  to  study  my  fellow- 
passengers. 

The  man  before  me  was  very  attractive,  although  he 
was  by  no  interpretation  a  gentle  type.  On  the  con 
trary,  he  looked  to  be  the  rough  and  ready  American, 
rough  in  phrase  and  ready  to  fight.  His  corduroy  coat 
hunched  about  his  musctilar  shoulders  in  awkward  lines, 
and  his  broad  face,  inclining  to  fat,  was  stern  and 
harsh.  He  appeared  to  be  about  thirty-five  years  of 
age. 

The  more  I  studied  him  the  more  I  hankered  to  know 
his  history.  The  conductor,  coming  through,  hailed 
him  with: 

"Well,  gettin'  back,  eh?    Had  a  good  trip?" 

Once  or  twice  the  miner — he  was  evidently  a  miner — 
leaned  from  the  window  and  waved  his  hat  to  some  one 
on  the  crossing,  shouted  a  cheery,  "How  goes  it?"  and 
the  brakeman  asked: 

237 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

"How  did  you  find  the  East?" 

From  all  this  I  deduced  that  the  miner  had  been 
away  on  a  visit  to  New  York,  or  Boston,  or  Washington. 

As  we  rose  the  air  became  so  cool,  so  clear,  so  crisp, 
that  we  seemed  to  be  entering  a  land  of  eternal  dew  and 
roses,  and  as  our  car  filled  with  the  delicious  scent  of 
pine  branches  and  green  grasses,  the  miner,  with  a  sol 
emn  look  on  his  face,  took  off  his  hat  and,  turning  to 
me,  said,  with  deep  intonation: 

"This  is  what  I  call  air.  This  is  good  for  what  ails 
me." 

"You've  been  away,"  I  stated  rather  than  asked. 

"I've  been  back  East — back  to  see  the  old  folks — first 
time  in  eleven  years." 

"What  do  you  call  East?"  I  pursued. 

"Anything  back  of  the  Missouri  River,"  he  replied, 
smiling  a  little.  "In  this  case  it  was  Michigan — near 
Jackson." 

"Citizen  of  the  camp?"     I  nodded  up  the  canon. 

"Yes,  I'm  workin'  a  lease  on  Bull  Hill." 

"How's  the  old  camp  looking?" 

"All  shot  to  pieces.  Half  the  houses  empty,  and  busi 
ness  gone  to  pot.  It's  a  purty  yellow  proposition  now." 

"You  don't  say !  It  was  pretty  slow  when  I  was  there 
last,  but  I  didn't  suppose  it  had  gone  broke.  What's 
the  matter  of  it?" 

"Too  many  monopolists.  All  the  good  properties 
have  gone  into  one  or  two  hands.  Then  these  labor 
wars  have  scared  operators  away.  However,  I'm  not 
complainin'.  I've  made  good  on  this  lease  of  mine." 
He  grinned  boyishly.  "I've  been  back  to  flash  my  roll 
in  the  old  man's  face.  You  see,  I  left  the  farm  rather 
sudden  one  Sunday  morning  eleven  years  ago,  and  I'd 
never  been  back."  His  face  changed  to  a  graver,  sweeter 

238 


THE   LEASER 

expression.  "My  sister  wrote  that  mother  was  not 
very  well  and  kind  o'  grievin'  about  me,  so,  as  I  was 
making  good  money,  I  thought  I  could  afford  to  surprise 
the  old  man  by  slapping  him  on  the  back.  "You  see, 
when  I  left,  I  told  him  I'd  never  darken  his  door  again — 
you  know  the  line  of  talk  a  boy  hands  out  to  his  dad 
when  he's  mad — and  for  over  ten  years  I  never  so  much 
as  wrote  a  line  to  any  of  the  family." 

As  he  mused  darkly  over  this  period,  I  insinuated  an 
other  question.  "What  was  the  trouble?" 

"That's  just  it!  Nothing  to  warrant  anything  more 
than  a  cuss-word,  and  yet  it  cut  me  loose.  I  was  goin' 
around  now  and  then  with  a  girl  the  old  man  didn't  like 
— or  rather,  my  old  man  and  her  old  man  didn't  hitch — 
and,  besides,  her  old  man  was  a  kind  of  shiftless  cuss, 
one  o'  these  men  that  raised  sparrows  in  his  beard,  and 
so  one  Sunday  morning,  as  I  was  polishin'  up  the  buggy 
to  go  after  Nance,  who  but  dad  should  come  out  and 
growl'. 

"'Where  ye  goin'  with  that  buggy?' 

"'None  o'  your  dam'  business,'  I  snaps  back,  hot  as 
hell  in  a  secunt,  '  but  just  to  touch  you  up,  I'll  tell  ;you. 
I'm  goin'  over  to  see  Nance  McRae.' 

"Well,  sir,  that  set  him  off.  'Not  with  my  horses,' 
says  he,  and,  grabbin'  the  buggy  by  the  thills,  he  sent  it 
back  into  the  shed.  Then  he  turned  on  me: 

'"If  you  want  to  see  that  girl,  you  walk!  I  won't 
have  you  usin'  my  tired  animals  to  cart  such  trash — ' 

"I  stopped  him  right  there.  He  was  a  big,  raw-boned 
citizen,  but  I  was  a  husky  chunk  of  a  lad  myself  and 
ready  to  fight. 

"'Don't  you  speak  a  word  against  Nance,'  I  says,  'for 
if  you  do  I'll  waller  ye  right  here  and  now;  and  as  for 
your  horse  and  buggy,  you  may  keep  'em  till  the  cows 

239 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

come  home.  Here's  where  I  get  off.  You'll  never  see 
me  again.' 

"Gee!  I  was  hot!  I  went  in,  packed  up  my  grip,  and 
hit  the  first  train  for  the  West." 

"Just  as  thousands  of  other  angry  boys  have  done," 
I  said,  realizing  to  the  minutest  detail  this  scene.  "They 
never  think  of  going  East." 

"No,  the  West  is  the  only  place  for  a  man  in  trouble — 
at  least,  so  it  seems  to  me." 

"Where  did  you  go?    What  did  you  do?" 

He  mused  again  as  if  recalling  his  struggles.  "I 
dropped  off  in  Kansas  and  got  a  job  on  a  farm  and 
fussed  around  there  for  the  fall  and  winter.  Then  I  got 
the  minin'  fever  and  came  to  Victor.  Of  course,  there 
wasn't  anything  for  a  grass-cutter  like  me  to  do  in  the 
hills  but  swing  a  pick.  I  didn't  like  underground  work, 
and  so  I  went  on  a  ranch  again.  Well,  I  kept  tryin'  the 
minin'  game  off  and  on,  prospectin'  here  and  there,  and 
finally  I  got  into  this  leasin'  business,  and  two  years  ago 
I  secured  a  lease  on  the  '  Red  Cent '  and  struck  it  good 
and  plenty.  Oh,  I  don't  intend  to  say  it's  any  Portland — 
but  it  pays  me  and  I've  been  stackin'  up  some  few 
dollars  down  at  the  Commercial  Bank,  and  feelin'  easy." 

The  man's  essential  sturdiness  of  character  came  out 
as  he  talked,  and  his  face  lost  the  heavy  and  rather 
savage  look  it  had  worn  at  first.  I  had  taken  a  seat  be 
side  him  by  this  time  and  my  sincere  interest  in  his 
affairs  seemed  to  please  him.  He  was  eager  to  talk,  as 
one  who  had  been  silent  for  a  long  time. 

I  led  him  back  to  the  point  of  most  interest  to  me. 
"And  so  at  last  you  relented  and  went  home?  I  hope 
you  found  the  old  folks  both  alive?  Did  they  know 
where  you  were?" 

"Yes.  My  sister  saw  my  name  in  a  paper — when  I 
240 


THE    LEASER 

made  my  stake — and  wrote,  and  mother  used  to  send 
word — used  to  mention  dad  occasionally."  He  laughed 
silently.  "It  sure  is  great  fun,  this  goin'  back  to  the 
home  pasture  with  a  fat  wad  in  your  pants  pocket — 
Lord !  I  owned  the  whole  town. ' ' 

"Tell  me  about  it!"  I  pleaded. 

He  was  ready  to  comply.  "Our  house  stood  near  the 
railway,  about  four  miles  this  side  of  Jackson,  and  you 
bet  I  had  my  head  out  of  the  winder  to  see  if  it  was  all 
there.  It  was.  It  looked  just  the  same,  only  the  old 
man  had  painted  it  yellow — and  seemed  like  I  could 
see  mother  settin'  on  the  porch.  I'd  had  it  all  planned 
to  hire  the  best  automobile  in  town  and  go  up  there  in 
shape  to  heal  sore  eyes — but  changed  my  plan. 

"'I'll  give  'em  more  of  a  shock  if  I  walk  out  and  pre 
tend  to  be  poor  and  kind  o'  meek,'  I  says  to  myself. 

"So  I  cached  my  valise  at  the  station  and  I  wallered 
out  there  through  the  dust — it  was  June  and  a  dry  spell 
and  hot.  Judas  priest!  I  thought  I'd  sweat  my  wad 
into  pulp  before  I  got  there — me  just  down  from  the 
high  country!  On  the  way  I  got  to  wonderin'  about 
Nancy.  'Is  she  alive,  I  wonder?' 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  you  left  her  without  a  word  of 
good-by?" 

He  looked  down  at  his  knee  and  scratched  a  patch  of 
grease  there.  "That's  what!  I  was  so  blame  mad  I 
cut  loose  of  the  whole  outfit.  Once  or  twice  sis  had 
mentioned  Nance  in  a  casual  kind  of  way,  but  as  I  didn't 
bite — she  had  quit  fishin',  and  so  I  was  all  in  the  dark 
about  her.  She  might  'ave  been  dead  or  married  or 
crazy,  for  all  I  knew.  However,  now  that  I  was  on  my 
way  back  with  nineteen  thousand  dollars  in  the  bank 
and  a  good  show  for  more,  I  kind  o'  got  to  wonderin' 
what  she  was  sufferin'  at." 

241 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

"I  hope  she  was  married  to  a  banker  in  town  and  the 
owner  of  an  electric  brougham.  'Twould  have  served 
you  right." 

He  smiled  again  and  resumed  his  story.  "By  the 
time  I  reached  the  old  gate  I  was  dusty  as  a  stage 
coach,  and  this  old  corduroy  suit  made  me  look  as  much 
like  a  tramp  as  anybody.  As  I  came  onto  the  old  man 
he  was  waterin'  a  span  o'  horses  at  the  well.  Every 
thing  looked  about  the  same,  only  a  little  older — he 
was  pretty  gray  and  some  thinner — and  I  calls  out  kind 
o'  meek-like: 

" '  Can  I  get  a  job  here,  mister?' 

4 'He  looked  me  over  a  spell,  then  says,  'No,  for  I'm 
purty  well  supplied  with  hands.' 

' '  What  you  need  is  a  boss,'  I  says,  grinnm'. 

"Then  he  knew  me,  but  he  didn't  do  no  fancy  start — 
he  just  growled  out  kind  o'  surly: 

"'I'm  competent  to  do  all  the  bossin'  on  this  place,' 
he  says. 

"'You  may  think  so,'  I  joshed  him,  'but  if  I  couldn't 
keep  a  place  lookin'  a  little  slicker  'n  this,  I'd  sell  out 
and  give  some  better  man  a  chance.' 

"Did  that  faze  him?  Not  on  your  life.  He  checked 
up  both  horses  before  he  opened  his  mouth  again. 

" '  You  don't  look  none  too  slick  yourself.  How  comes 
it  you're  trampin*  this  hot  weather?' 

"I  see  what  he  was  driving  at  and  so  I  fed  him  the 
dope  he  wanted. 

" ' Well,  I've  had  hard  luck,'  I  says.     'I've  been  sick.' 

'"You  don't  look  sick,'  he  snapped  out,  quick  as  a 
flash.  'You  look  tolerable  husky.  You  'pear  like  one 
o'  these  chaps  that  eat  up  all  they  earn — eat  and  drink 
and  gamble,'  he  went  on,  pilin'  it  up.  'I  don't  pity 
tramps  a  bit;  they're  all  topers.' 

242 


THE    LEASER 

"I  took  it  meek  as  Moses. 

'"Well/  I  says,  'I'm  just  out  of  the  hospital,  and 
whilst  I  may  seem  husky,  I  need  a  good  quiet  place  and 
a  nice  easy  job  for  a  while.  Moreover,  I'm  terrible 
hungry.' 

" '  You  go  'long  up  to  the  house,'  he  says,  *  and  tell  the 
girl  in  the  kitchen  to  hand  you  out  a  plate  of  cold  meat. 
I'll  be  along  in  a  minute.' 

"  And  off  he  went  to  the  barn,  leavin'  me  shakin'  with 
his  jolt.  He  was  game  all  right !  He  figured  me  out  as 
the  prodigal  son,  and  wa'n't  goin'  to  knuckle.  He  in 
tended  for  me  to  do  all  the  knee  exercise.  I  drifted  along 
up  the  path  toward  the  kitchen. 

"Judas!  but  it  did  seem  nice  and  familiar.  It  was  all 
so  green  and  flowery  after  camp.  There  ain't  a  tree  or  a 
patch  of  green  grass  left  in  Cripple ;  but  there,  in  our  old 
yard,  were  lylock-trees,  and  rose-bushes  climbin'  the 
porch,  and  pinks  and  hollyhocks — and  beehives,  just  as 
they  used  to  set — and  clover.  Say,  it  nearly  had  me 
smfflin'.  It  sure  did." 

The  memory  of  it  rather  pinched  his  voice  as  he  de 
scribed  it,  but  he  went  on. 

"Of  course  I  couldn't  live  down  there  now — it's  too 
low,  after  a  man  has  breathed  such  air  as  this." 

He  looked  out  at  the  big  clouds  soaring  round  Pike's 
Peak. 

"But  the  flowers  and  the  grass  they  did  kind  o'  get 
me.  I  edged  round  on  the  front  side  of  the  house,  and, 
sure  enough,  there  sat  mother,  just  as  she  used  to — in  the 
same  old  chair. 

"  Cap,  I  want  to  tell  you,  I  didn't  play  no  circus  tricks 
on  her.  Her  head  had  grown  white  as  snow  and  she 
looked  kind  o'  sad  and  feeble.  I  began  to  understand  a 
little  of  the  worry  I'd  been  to  her.  I  said  good  evening, 

243 


THEY   OF    THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

and  she  turned  and  looked  at  me.     Then  she  opened  her 
arms  and  called  out  my  name." 

His  voice  choked  unmistakably  this  time,  and  it  was 
a  minute  or  two  before  he  resumed. 

"No  jokes,  no  lies  doin'  there!  I  opened  right  up  to 
her.  I  told  her  I'd  done  well,  but  that  I  didn't  want 
father  to  know  it  just  yet,  and  we  sit  there  holdin'  hands 
when  the  old  man  hove  round  the  corner. 

"'Stephen/  says  mother,  kind  o'  solemn,  'here's  our 
son  Edward.' 

"Did  the  old  man  wilt,  or  climb  the  line  fence  and 
offer  to  shake  hands  ?  Nitsky !  He  just  shoved  one  hip 
onto  the  edge  of  the  porch  and  remarked: 

"'Does  this  dry  spell  reach  as  fur  as  where  you've 
been?'" 

He  broke  into  silent  laughter  again,  and  I  joined  him. 
This  was  all  so  deeply  characteristic  of  the  life  I  had 
known  in  my  youth  that  I  writhed  with  delight.  I 
understood  the  duel  of  wits  and  wills.  I  could  see  it 
proceed  as  my  companion  chuckled. 

"Well,  sir,  we  played  that  game  all  the  evening.  I 
told  of  all  the  bad  leases  I'd  tackled — and  how  I'd  been 
thrown  from  a  horse  and  laid  up  for  six  months.  I 
brought  out  every  set-back  and  bruise  I'd  ever  had — all  to 
see  if  the  old  man  would  weaken  and  feel  sorry  for  me." 

"Did  he?" 

"Not  for  a  minute!  And  sometimes,  as  I  looked  at 
him,  I  was  sorry  I'd  come  home;  but  when  I  was  with 
mother  I  was  glad.  She  'phoned  to  sis,  who  lived  in 
Jackson,  and  sis  came  on  the  lope,  and  we  had  a  nice 
family  party.  Sis  touched  on  Nancy  McRae. 

"'You  remember  her?'  she  asked. 

" 'I  seem  to,'  I  says,  kind  of  slow,  as  if  I  was  dredgin' 
my  mind  to  find  something. 

244 


THE    LEASER 

"'Well,  she's  on  the  farm,  just  the  same  as  ever — 
takin'  care  of  the  old  man.  Her  mother's  dead.' 

"I  didn't  push  that  matter  any  farther,  but  just 
planned  to  ride  over  the  next  morning  and  see  how  she 
looked. 

"All  that  evening  sis  and  I  deviled  the  old  man. 
Mother  had  told  sis  about  my  mine — and  so  she'd  bring 
out  every  little  while  how  uncertain  the  gold-seekin' 
business  was  and  how  if  I'd  stayed  on  the  farm  I  could 
'a'  been  well  off — and  she'd  push  me  hard  when  I  started 
in  on  one  of  my  hard-luck  stories.  I  had  to  own  up  that 
I  had  walked  out  to  save  money,  and  that  I  was  trav- 
elin'  on  an  excursion  ticket  'cause  it  was  cheap — and 
so  on. 

"The  old  man's  mouth  got  straighter  and  straighter 
and  his  eyes  colder — but  I  told  mother  not  to  say  any 
thing  till  next  day,  and  she  didn't,  although  he  tossed 
and  turned  and  grunted  half  the  night.  He  really  took 
it  hard;  but  he  finally  agreed  to  harbor  me  and  give 
me  a  chance — so  mother  told  me  next  morning — which 
was  Sunday.  I  had  planned  to  get  home  Saturday 
night. 

"Next  morning  after  breakfast — and  it  was  a  break 
fast — I  strolled  out  to  the  barn  and,  the  carriage-shed 
door  being  open,  I  pulled  the  old  buggy  out — 'peared 
like  it  was  the  very  same  one,  and  I  was  a-dustin'  the 
cushions  and  fussin'  around  when  the  old  man  came  up. 

"'What  you  doin'  with  that  buggy?'  he  asks. 

"'I  jest  thought  I'd  ride  over  and  see  Nance  McRae,' 
I  says,  just  as  I  did  eleven  years  before. 

' '  I  reckon  you  better  think  again,'  he  says,  and  rolls 
the  buggy  back  into  the  shed,  just  the  way  he  did  be 
fore.  'If  you  want  to  see  Nance  McRae  you  can  walk,' 
he  says,  and  I  could  see  he  meant  it. 

245 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

"'All  right,'  I  says,  and  out  I  stepped  without  so 
much  as  saying  good-by,  intendin'  to  go  for  good  this 
time. 

"I  went  across  the  road  to  Martin's  and  got  a  chance 
to  'phone  into  Jackson,  and  in  about  twenty  minutes  I 
was  whirlin'  over  the  road  in  a  red-cushioned  automo 
bile  that  ran  smooth  as  oil,  and  inside  of  half  an  hour 
I  was  rollin'  through  McRae's  gate. 

"Now,  up  to  this  time,  I  hadn't  any  notion  of  a  pro 
gram  as  to  Nancy;  I  was  all  took  up  with  gettin'  ahead 
of  dad.  But  when  I  found  myself  in  front  of  old 
McRae,  more  down  at  the  heel  and  raggeder  in  the  seat 
than  ever,  I  was  a  whole  lot  set  back.  What  was  I  to  say 
to  him  and  to  her?  I  didn't  know.  He  was  gappin'  at 
me  with  the  eyes  of  an  owl,  and  so  I  opened  up. 

"'I  see  you  have  no  lightnin'-rods?'  I  says.  'In  this 
day  and  age  of  the  world  you  can't  afford  to  go  without 
lightnin'-rods.' 

"He  wa'n't  no  fool,  if  he  did  wear  rats  in  his  hair,  and 
he  says: 

"'I  thought  you  was  a  cream-separator  man.  Are 
lightnin'-rods  comin'  into  style  again?' 

"'My  kind  is,'  I  says. 

" '  Well,  the  trade  must  be  lookin'  up,'  he  says,  walkin' 
round  and  round  my  machine  and  eyin'  it.  'I'm 
thinkin'  of  havin'  one  of  them  wagons  for  haulin'  milk 
to  town.  Won't  you  light  out?' 

"'Don't  care  if  I  do,'  I  says,  and  out  I  rolled,  feelin* 
a  little  shaky. 

"I  was  mighty  anxious  to  see  Nance  by  this  time,  but 
felt  shy  of  askin'  about  her. 

'"What  is  the  latest  kink  in  rods?'  asked  the  old  cuss. 

"'These  kind  I  sell,'  I  says,  'are  the  kind  that  catch 
and  store  the  electricity  in  a  tank  down  cellar.  Durin' 

246 


THE    LEASER 

a  thunder-storm  you  can  save  up  enough  to  rock  the 
baby  and  run  the  churn  for  a  week  or  two.' 

"'I  want  'o  know,'  he  says.  'Well,  we  'ain't  got  a 
baby  and  no  churn — but  mebbe  it  would  run  a  cream- 
separator?' 

"'Sure  it  would.' 

"All  the  time  we  was  a-joshin'  this  way  he  was 
a-studyin'  me — and  finally  he  said: 

" '  You  can't  fool  me,  Ed.     How  are  ye?' 

"And  we  shook  hands.  I  always  liked  the  old  cuss. 
He  was  a  great  reader — always  talkin'  about  Napoleon 
— he'd  been  a  great  man  if  he'd  ever  got  off  the  farm  and 
into  something  that  required  just  his  kind  o'  brain- work. 

:"Come  in,'  he  says.     'Nance  will  want  to  see  you.' 

"The  minute  he  said  that  I  had  a  queer  feelin'  at  the 
pit  o'  my  stummick — I  did,  sure  thing.  'It's  a  little 
early  for  a  call,'  I  says,  'and  I  ain't  in  Sunday  clothes.' 

'"That  don't  matter,'  he  says;  'she'll  be  glad  to  see 
you  any  time.' 

"You'd  'a'  thought  I'd  been  gone  eleven  weeks  instead 
of  eleven  years. 

"Nance  wasn't  a  bit  like  her  dad.  She  always  looked 
shipshape,  no  matter  what  she  was  a-doin'.  She  was 
in  the  kitchen,  busy  as  a  gasoline-motor,  when  we  busted 
through  the  door. 

"'Nance!'  the  old  man  called  out,  'here's  Ed  Hatch.' 

"She  didn't  do  any  fancy  stunts.  She  just  straight 
ened  up  and  looked  at  me  kind  o'  steady  for  a  minute, 
and  then  came  over  to  shake  hands. 

P'Tm  glad  to  see  you  back,  Ed,'  she  says." 
The  stress  of  this  meeting  was  still  over  him,  as  I 
could  see  and  hear,  and  I  waited  for  him  to  go  on. 

"She  hadn't  changed  as  much  as  mother.  She  was 
older  and  sadder  and  kind  o'  subdued,  and  her  hand  felt 

17 


THEY    OF    THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

calloused,  but  I'd  'a'  known  her  anywhere.  She  was 
dressed  in  a  blue  calico  dress,  but  she  was  sure  hand 
some  still,  and  I  said  to  her: 

' '  You  need  a  change  of  climate,'  I  says,  '  and  a  dif 
ferent  kind  of  boss.  Colorado's  where  you  ought  to 
be,'  I  went  on. 

"For  half  an  hour  I  kept  banterin'  her  like  that,  and 
though  she  got  pink  now  and  then,  she  didn't  seem  to 
understand — or  if  she  did  she  didn't  let  on.  She  stuck 
to  her  work  whilst  the  old  man  and  me  watched  her. 
Seein'  her  going  about  that  kitchen  that  way  got  me 
locoed.  I  always  liked  to  watch  mother  in  the  kitchen 
— and  Nance  was  a  genuine  housekeeper,  I  always  knew 
that. 

"Finally  I  says: 

'"I  hain't  got  any  btiggy,  Nance — the  old  man 
wouldn't  let  me  have  one  last  Sunday — I  mean  eleven 
years  ago — that's  what  threw  me  off  the  track-^but  I've 
got  a  forty-horse-power  car  out  here.  Suppose  you  put 
on  your  best  apron  and  take  a  ride  with  me.' 

"She  made  some  words  as  women  will,  but  she  got 
ready,  and  she  did  look  handsomer  than  ever  as  she 
came  out.  She  was  excited,  I  could  see  that,  but  she 
was  all  there!  No  jugglin'  or  fussin'. 

"'Climb  in  the  front  seat,  dad,'  I  says.  'It's  me  and 
Nance  to  the  private  box.  Turn  on  the  juice,'  I  says 
to  the  driver. 

"Well,  sir,  we  burned  up  all  the  grease  in  the  box 
lookin'  up  the  old  neighbors  and  the  places  we  used  to 
visit  with  horse  and  buggy — and  every  time  I  spoke  to  the 
old  man  I  called  him '  Dad ' — and  finally  we  fetched  up  at 
the  biggest  hotel  in  the  town  and  had  dinner  together. 

"Then  I  says:  'Dad,  you  better  lay  down  and  snooze. 
Nance  and  me  are  goin'  out  for  a  walk.' 

248 


THE   LEASER 

"The  town  had  swelled  up  some,  but  one  or  two  of 
the  old  stores  was  there,  and  as  we  walked  past  the  win 
dows  I  says:  'Remember  the  time  we  stood  here  and 
wished  we  could  buy  things?' 

"She  kind  o'  laughed.     'I  don't  believe  I  do.' 

"  'Yes,  you  do,'  I  says.  '  Well,  we  can  look  now  to  some 
account,  for  I've  got  nineteen  thousand  dollars  in  the 
bank  and  a  payin'  lease  on  a  mine.'" 

Up  to  this  minute  he  had  been  fairly  free  to  express 
his  real  feelings — hypnotized  by  my  absorbed  gaze — but 
now,  like  most  Anglo-Saxons,  he  began  to  shy.  He  be 
gan  to  tell  of  a  fourteen-dollar  suit  of  clothes  (bought 
at  this  store)  which  turned  green  in  the  hot  sun. 

"Oh,  come  now!"  I  insisted,  "I  want  to  know  about 
Nancy.  All  this  interests  me  deeply.  Did  she  agree  to 
come  back  with  you?" 

He  looked  a  little  bit  embarrassed.  "  I  asked  her  to — 
right  there  in  front  of  that  window.  I  said,  '  I  want  you 
to  let  me  buy  you  that  white  dress.' 

'"Judas  priest!  I  can't  let  you  do  that,'  she  says. 

"'Why  not?'  I  said.  'We're  goin'  to  be  married, 
anyhow.' 

'"Is  that  so?'  she  asked.     'I  hadn't  heard  of  it.' 

"Oh,  she  was  no  babe,  I  tell  you.  We  went  back  to 
the  hotel  and  woke  up  the  old  man,  and  I  ordered  up 
the  best  machine  in  the  shop — a  big  seven-seated,  shiny 
one,  half  as  long  as  a  Pullman  parlor-car,  with  a  top  and 
brass  housin's  and  extra  tires  strapped  on,  and  a  place 
for  a  trunk — an  outfit  that  made  me  look  like  a  street- 
railway  magnate.  It  set  me  back  a  whole  lot,  but  I 
wanted  to  stagger  dad — and  I  did.  As  we  rolled  up  to  the 
door  he  came  out  with  eyes  you  could  hang  your  hat  on. 

'"What's  all  this?'  he  asked. 

"I  hopped  out. 

249 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

" ' Miss  McRae,'  I  says,  'this  is  my  father.  Dad,  this 
is  Mister  McRae.  I  think  you've  met  before.'" 

He  chuckled  again,  that  silent  interior  laugh,  and  I 
was  certainly  grinning  in  sympathy  as  he  went  on. 

"'Just  help  me  with  this  trunk,'  I  says.  'The  horses 
bein'  tired,  I  just  thought  I'd  have  a  dray  to  bring  up 
my  duds.' 

"Well,  sir,  I  had  him  flat  down.  He  couldn't  raise  a 
grunt.  He  stood  like  a  post  while  I  laid  off  my  trunk; 
but  mother  and  sis  came  out  and  were  both  very  nice 
to  .Nance.  Mother  asked  her  to  get  out,  and  she  did, 
and  I  took  'em  all  for  a  ride  later — all  but  dad.  Couldn't 
get  him  inside  the  machine.  Nance  stayed  for  supper, 
and  just  as  we  were  goin'  in  dad  said  to  me: 

" '  How  much  does  that  red  machine  cost  you  an  hour?' 

'"About  two  dollars.' 

"'I  reckon  you  better  send  it  back  to  the  shop,'  he 
says.  'You  can  take  Nance  home  in  my  buggy.' 

"It  was  his  surrender;   but  I  didn't  turn  a  hair. 

'"I  guess  you're  right,'  I  says.  ' It  is  a  little  expensive 
to  spark  in — and  a  little  too  public,  too.'" 

The  whistle  of  the  engine  announcing  the  station 
helped  him  out. 

"Here's  Victor,  and  my  mine  is  up  there  on  the  north 
west  side.  You  can  just  see  the  chimney.  I've  got 
another  year  on  it,  and  I'm  goin'  to  raise  dirt  to  beat 
hell  durin'  all  the  time  there  is  left,  and  then  I'm  goin' 
to  Denver." 

"And  Nance?" 

"Oh,  she's  comin'  out  next  week,"  he  said,  as  he  rose 
to  take  down  his  valise.  "I've  bought  a  place  at  the 
Springs." 

"  Good  luck  to  you  both,"  said  I,  as  he  swung  from_the 
train. 


THE  FOREST  RANGER 


— hardy  son  of  the  pioneers — repre 
senting  the  finer  social  order  of  the 
future,  rides  his  lonely  trail,  guard 
ing  with  single-hearted  devotion  the 
splendid  heritage  of  us  all. 


IX 
THE   FOREST  RANGER 


ONE  April  day  some  years  ago,  when  the  rustling  of 
cattle  (a  picturesque  name  for  stealing)  was  still 
going  on  in  one  of  our  central  mountain  states,  Abe  Kit- 
song,  a  rancher  on  the  Shellfish,  meeting  Hanscom,  the 
forest  ranger  of  that  district,  called  out: 

"Say,  mister,  do  you  know  that  some  feller  has  taken 
a  claim  in  our  valley  right  bang  up  against  your  boun 
dary  line?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  Hanscom.  "I've  an  eye  on  him.  He's 
started  a  cabin  already." 

"I  didn't  know  that  land  was  open  or  I'd  'a'  took  it 
myself.  Who  is  the  old  chap,  anyway?" 

"I  don't  know  where  he  comes  from,  but  his  name  is 
Kauffman — Pennsylvania  Dutch,  I  reckon." 

"Watson  will  be  hot  when  he  runs  agin'  the  fence  that 
feller's  puttin'  up." 

"Well,  the  man's  in  there  and  on  the  way  to  a  clear 
title,  so  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?" 

"  I  don't  plan  for  to  do  anything,  but  Watson  will  sure 
be  sore,"  repeated  Kitsong. 

The  ranger  smiled  and  rode  on.  He  was  a  native  of 
the  West,  a  plain-featured,  deliberate  young  fellow  of 

253 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS      , 

thirty  who  sat  his  horse  with  the  easy  grace  which  marks 
the  trailer,  while  Abe  Kitsong,  tall,  gaunt,  long-bearded, 
and  sour-faced,  was  a  Southerner,  a  cattleman  of  bad 
reputation  with  the  alfalfa  farmers  farther  down  the 
valley.  He  was  a  notable  survivor  of  the  "good  old 
days  of  the  range,"  and  openly  resented  the  "punkin 
rollers"  who  were  rapidly  fencing  all  the  lower  meadows. 
Watson  was  his  brother-in-law,  and  together  they  had 
controlled  the  upper  waters  of  the  Shellfish,  making  a 
last  stand  in  the  secluded  valley. 

The  claim  in  question  lay  in  a  lonely  spot  at  the  very 
head  of  a  narrow  canon,  and  included  a  lovely  little 
meadow  close  clasped  by  a  corner  of  the  dark  robe  of 
forest  which  was  Hanscom's  especial  care,  and  which 
he  guarded  with  single-hearted  devotion.  The  new 
cabin  stood  back  from  the  trail,  and  so  for  several  weeks 
its  owner  went  about  his  work  in  undisturbed  tranquillity. 
Occasionally  he  drove  to  town  for  supplies,  but  it  soon 
appeared  that  he  was  not  seeking  acquaintance  with  his 
neighbors,  and  in  one  way  or  another  he  contrived  to 
defend  himself  from  visitors. 

He  was  a  short  man,  gray-mustached  and  somber,  but 
his  supposed  wife  (who  dressed  in  the  rudest  fashion 
and  covered  her  head,  face,  and  shoulders  with  an  old- 
fashioned  gingham  sunbonnet)  was  reported  by  Watson, 
her  nearest  neighbor,  to  be  much  younger  than  her  hus 
band  and  comely.  "I  came  on  her  the  other  day 
without  that  dinged  bunnit,"  said  he,  "and  she's  not 
so  bad-looking,  but  she's  shy.  Couldn't  lay  a  hand  on 
her." 

In  spite  of  this  report,  for  a  month  or  two  the  men 
of  the  region,  always  alert  on  the  subject  of  women, 
manifested  but  a  moderate  interest  in  the  stranger. 
They  hadn't  much  confidence  in  Watson's  judgment, 

254 


w  K: 

Ii 

O  O 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

anyhow,  and  besides,  the  woman  carried  herself  so  un 
gracefully  and  dressed  so  plainly  that  even  the  saloon- 
door  loafers  cast  contemptuous  glances  upon  her  as  she 
hurried  by  the  post-office  on  her  way  to  the  grocery. 
In  fact,  they  put  the  laugh  on  Watson,  and  he  would 
have  been  buying  the  drinks  for  them  all  had  not  the 
postmaster  come  to  his  rescue. 

"Ed's  right,"  said  he.  "She's  younger  than  she  looks, 
and  has  a  right  nice  voice." 

"Is  it  true  that  her  letters  come  addressed  in  two  dif 
ferent  names?"  queried  one  of  the  men. 

"No.  Her  letters  come  addressed  'Miss  Helen 
McLaren.'  What  that  means  I  can't  say.  But  the  old 
man  spoke  of  her  as  his  daughter." 

"I  don't  take  much  stock  in  that  daughter's  busi 
ness,"  said  one  of  the  loafers.  "There's  a  mouse  in  the 
meal  somewhere." 

Thereafter  this  drab  and  silent  female,  by  her  very 
wish  to  be  left  alone,  became  each  day  a  more  absorbing 
topic  of  conversation.  She  was  not  what  she  seemed — 
this  was  the  verdict.  As  for  Kauffman,  he  was  con 
sidered  a  man  who  would  bear  watching,  and  when 
finally,  being  pressed  to  it,  he  volunteered  the  informa 
tion  that  he  was  in  the  hills  for  his  daughter's  health, 
many  sneered. 

"Came  away  between  two  days,  I'll  bet,"  said  Wat 
son.  "And  as  fer  the  woman,  why  should  her  mail 
come  under  another  name  from  his  ?  Does  that  look  like 
she  was  his  daughter?" 

"She  may  be  a  stepdaughter,"  suggested  the  post 
master. 

"More  likely  she's  another  man's  wife,"  retorted 
Watson. 

During  the  early  autumn  Kauffman  published  the 
255 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

fact  that  he  had  registered  a  brand,  and  from  time  to 
time  those  who  happened  to  ride  up  the  valley  brought 
back  a  report  that  he  owned  a  small  but  growing  herd 
of  cattle.  Watson  did  not  hesitate  to  say  that  he  had 
never  been  able  to  find  where  the  new-comer  bought  his 
stock — and  in  those  days  no  man  was  quite  free  from 
the  necessity  of  exhibiting  a  bill  of  sale. 

However,  the  people  of  the  town  paid  small  attention 
to  this  slur,  for  Watson  himself  was  not  entirely  above 
suspicion.  He  was  considered  a  dangerous  character. 
Once  or  twice  he  had  been  forced,  at  the  mouth  of  a 
rifle,  to  surrender  calves  that  had,  as  he  explained,  "got 
mixed"  with  his  herd.  In  truth,  he  was  nearly  always 
in  controversy  with  some  one. 

"Kauffman  don't  look  to  me  like  an  'enterprising 
roper,"'  Hanscom  reported  to  his  supervisor.  "And  as 
for  his  wife,  or  daughter,  or  whatever  she  is,  I've  never 
seen  anything  out  of  the  way  about  her.  She  attends 
strictly  to  her  own  affairs.  Furthermore,"  he  added, 
"Watson,  as  you  know,  is  under  'wool-foot  surveillance* 
right  now  by  the  Cattle  Raisers'  Syndicate,  and  I 
wouldn't  take  his  word  under  oath." 

The  supervisor  shared  the  ranger's  view,  and  smiled 
at  "the  pot  calling  the  kettle  black."  And  so  matters 
drifted  along  till  in  one  way  or  another  the  Kitsongs  had 
set  the  whole  upper  valley  against  the  hermits  and  Wat 
son  (in  his  cups)  repeatedly  said:  "  That  fellow  has  no 
business  in  there.  That's  my  grass.  He  stole  it  from 
me." 

His  resentment  grew  with  repetition  of  his  fancied 
grievance,  and  at  last  he  made  threats.  "He's  an  out 
law,  that's  what  he  is — and  as  for  that  woman,  well, 
I'm  going  up  there  some  fine  day  and  snatch  the  bunnil 
off  her  and  see  what  she  really  looks  like!" 

256 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

"Better  go  slow,"  urged  one  of  his  friends.  "That 
chap  looks  to  me  like  one  of  the  old  guard.  He  may 
have  something  to  say  about  your  doings  with  his 
daughter." 

Watson  only  grinned.  "He  ain't  in  no  position  to 
object  if  she  don't — and  I  guess  I  can  manage  her," 
he  ended  with  drunken  swagger. 

Occasionally  Hanscom  met  the  woman  on  the  trail 
or  in  the  town,  and  always  spoke  in  friendly  greeting. 
The  first  time  he  spoke  she  lifted  her  head  like  a  scared 
animal,  but  after  that  she  responded  with  a  low,  "Howdy, 
sir?"  and  her  voice  (coming  from  the  shadow  of  her  ugly 
headgear)  was  unexpectedly  clear  and  sweet.  Although 
he  was  never  able  to  see  her  face,  something  in  her  bear 
ing  and  especially  in  her  accent  pleased  and  stirred  him. 

Without  any  special  basis  for  it,  he  felt  sorry  for  her 
and  resolved  to  help  her,  and  when  one  day  he  met  her 
on  the  street  and  asked,  in  friendly  fashion,  "How  are 
you  to-day?"  she  looked  up  at  him  and  replied,  "Very 
well,  thank  you,  sir,"  and  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  a 
lovely  chin  and  a  sad  and  sensitive  mouth. 

"She's  had  more  than  her  share  of  trouble,  that  girl 
has,"  he  thought  as  he  passed  on. 

Thereafter  a  growing  desire  to  see  her  eyes,  to  hear 
her  voice,  troubled  him. 

Kauffman  stopped  him  on  the  road  next  day  and  said : 
"  I  am  Bavarian,  and  in  my  country  we  respect  the  laws 
of  the  forest.  I  honor  your  office,  and  shall  regard  all 
your  regulations.  I  have  a  few  cattle  which  will  natural 
ly  graze  in  the  forest.  I  wish  to  take  out  a  permit  for 
them." 

To  this  Hanscom  cordially  replied:  "Sure  thing. 
That's  what  I'm  here  for.  And  if  you  want  any  timber 
tor  your  corrals  just  let  me  know  and  I'll  fix  you  out." 

257 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILF 

Kauffman  thanked  him  and  rode  on. 

As  the  weeks  passed  Hanscom  became  more  anymore 
conscious  of  the  strange  woman's  presence  in  thei;v  "~y. 
He  gave,  in  truth,  a  great  deal  of  thought*  to  her,  and 
twice  deliberately  rode  around  that  way  in  the 'hope  of 
catching  sight  of  her.  He  could  not  ri<  ^imself  of  a 
feeling  of  pity.  The  vision  of  her  delicately T modeled 
chin  and  the  sorrowful  droop  in  the  line  of  her 'tips  never 
left  him.  He  wished — and  the  desire  was  more  than  curi 
osity — to  meet  her  eyes,  to  get  the  full  view  of  her  face. 

Gradually  she  came  to  the  exchange  of  a  few  words 
with  him,  and  always  he  felt  her  dark  eyes  glowing  in 
the  shadow  of  her  head-dress,  and  they  seemed  quite  as 
sad  as  her  lips.  She  no  longer  appeared  afraid  of  him, 
and  yet  she  did  not  express  a  willingness  for  closer  con 
tact.  That  she  was  very  lonely  he  was  sure,  for  she  had 
few  acquaintances  in  the  town  and  no  visitors  at  all. 
No  one  had  ever  been  able  to  penetrate  to  the  interior 
of  the  cabin  in  which  she  secluded  herself,  but  it  was 
reported  that  she  spent  her  time  in  the  garden  and  that 
she  had  many  strange  flowers  and  plants  growing  there. 
But  of  this  Hanscom  had  only  the  most  diffused  hearsay. 

Watson's  thought  concerning  the  lonely  woman  was 
not  merely  dishonoring — it  was  ruthless;  and  when  he 
met  her,  as  he  occasionally  did,  he  called  to  her  in  a 
voice  which  contained  something  at  once  savage  and 
familiar.  But  he  could  never  arrest  her  hurrying  step. 
Once  when  he  planted  himself  directly  in  her  way  she 
bent  her  head  and  slipped  around  him,  like  a  partridge, 
feeling  in  him  the  enmity  that  knows  no  pity  a,nd  no 
remorse. 

His  baseness  was  well  known  to  the  town,  for  he  was 
one  of  those  whose  tongues  reveal  their  degradation  as 
soon  as  they  are  intoxicated.  He  boasted  of  his  exploits 

258 


;:       THE    FOREST    RANGER 

in  i lie  city  and  of  the  women  he  had  brought  to  his 
ranch,  and  these  revelations  made  him  the  hero  of  a  cer- 
te'Vjrfrype  of  loafer.  His  cabin  was  recognized  as  a  center 
ot  uisorder  and  was  generally  avoided  by  decent  people. 

As  he  felt  his  dominion  slipping  away,  as  he  saw  the 
big  farmer^  $Tie  in  down  below  him  and  recognized  the 
rule  of  Ihe  Federal  government  above  him,  he  grew 
reckless  .;n  his  roping  and  branding.  He  had  not  been 
convicted  of  dishonesty,  but  it  was  pretty  certain  that 
he  was  a  rustler;  in  fact,  the  whole  Shellfish  community 
was  under  suspicion.  As  the  ranger  visited  these  cabins 
and  came  upon  five  or  six  big,  hulking,  sullen  men,  he 
was  glad  that  he  had  little  business  with  them.  They 
were  in  a  chronic  state  of  discontent  with  the  world  and 
especially  with  the  Forest  Service. 

With  the  almost  maniacal  persistency  of  the  drunk 
ard,  Watson  now  fixed  his  mind  upon  the  mysterious 
woman  at  the  head  of  the  valley.  He  talked  of  no  one 
else,  and  his  vile  words  came  to  Hanscom's  ears.  Wat 
son's  cronies  considered  his  failure  to  secure  even  a  word 
with  the  woman  a  great  joke  and  reported  that  he  had 
found  the  door  locked  when  he  finally  followed  her  home. 

Hanscom,  indignant  yet  helpless  to  interfere,  heard 
with  pleasure  that  the  old  man  had  threatened  Watson 
with  bodily  harm  if  he  came  to  his  door  again,  that 
with  all  his  effrontery  Watson  had  not  yet  been  able 
to  set  his  foot  across  the  threshold,  and  that  he  had 
gone  to  Denver  on  business.  "He'll  forget  that  poor 
woman,  maybe,"  he  said. 

Thereafter  he  thought  of  her  as  freed  from  persecu 
tion,  although  he  knew  that  others  of  the  valley  held 
her  in  view  as  legitimate  quarry. 

His  was  a  fine,  serious,  though  uncultivated  nature. 
A  genuine  lover  of  the  wilderness,  he  had  reached 

259 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

time  of  life  when  love  is  cleansed  of  its  devastating  sel 
fishness,  and  his  feeling  for  .the  lonely  woman  of  the 
Shellfish  held  something  akin  to  great  poetry. 

His  own  solitary,  vigorous  employment,  his  constant 
warfare  with  wind  and  cloud,  had  made  him  a  little  of 
the  seer  and  something  of  the  poet.  Woman  to  him 
was  not  merely  the  female  of  his  species;  she  was  a 
marvelous  being,  created  for  the  spiritual  as  well  as  for 
the  material  need  of  man. 

In  this  spirit  he  had  lived,  and,  being  but  a  plain, 
rather  shy  farmer  and  prospector,  he  had  come  to  his 
thirtieth  year  with  very  little  love  history  to  his  credit 
or  discredit.  He  was,  therefore,  peculiarly  susceptible 
to  that  sweet  disease  of  the  imagination  which  is  able 
to  transform  the  rudest  woman  into  beauty.  In  this 
case  the  very  slightness  of  the  material  on  which  his 
mind  dwelt  set  the  wings  of  his  fancy  free.  He  brooded 
and  dreamed  as  he  rode  his  trail  as  well  as  when  he  sat 
beside  his  rude  fireplace  at  night,  listening  to  the  wind 
in  the  high  firs.  In  all  his  thought  he  was  honorable. 


ii 

One  day  in  early  autumn,  as  he  was  returning  to  his 
station,  Hanscom  met  Abe  Kitsong  just  below  Watson's 
cabin,  riding  furiously  down  the  hill.  Drawing  his  horse 
to  a  stand,  the  rancher  called  out : 

"Just  the  man  I  need !" 

"What's  the  trouble?" 

"Ed  Watson's  killed!" 

Hanscom  stared  incredulously.  ."No!  Where — 
when?" 

"Last  night.  I  reckon.  You  see, JEd  had  promised  to 
260 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

ride  down  to  my  place  this  morning  and  help  me  to  raise 
a  shed,  and  when  he  didn't  come  I  got  oneasy  and  went 
up  to  see  what  kept  him,  and  the  first  thing  I  saw  when 
I  opened  the  door  was  him  layin'  on  the  floor,  shot 
through  and  through."  Here  his  voice  grew  savage. 
"And  by  that  Kauffman  woman!" 

"Hold  on,  Abe!"  called  the  ranger,  sharply.  "Go 
slow  on  that  talk.  What  makes  you  think  that  woman 
— any  woman — did  it?" 

"Well,  it  jest  happened  that  Ed  had  spilled  some 
flour  along  the  porch,  and  in  prowling  around  the  window 
that  woman  jest  naturally  walked  over  it.  You  can 
see  the  print  of  her  shoes  where  she  stopped  under  the 
window.  You've  got  to  go  right  up  there — you're  a  gov- 
er'ment  officer — and  stand  guard  over  the  body  while  I 
ride  down  the  valley  and  get  the  coroner  and  the  sheriff." 

"All  right.  Consider  it  done,"  said  Hanscom,  and 
Kitsong  continued  his  frenzied  pace  down  the  valley. 

The  ranger,  his  blood  quickening  in  spite  of  himself, 
spurred  his  horse  into  a  gallop  and  was  soon  in  sight  of 
the  Shellfish  Ranch,  where  Watson  had  lived  for  several 
years  in  unkempt,  unsavory  bachelorhood,  for  the  rea 
son  that  his  wife  had  long  since  quit  him,  and  only  the 
roughest  cowboys  would  tolerate  the  disorder  of  his 
bed  and  board.  Privately,  Hanscom  was  not  much  sur 
prised  at  the  rustler's  death  (although  the  manner  of 
it  seemed  unnecessarily  savage),  for  he  was  quarrelsome 
and  vindictive. 

The  valley  had  not  yet  emerged  from  the  violent 
era,  and  every  man  in  the  hills  went  armed.  The  canons 
round  about  were  still  safe  harbors  for  "lonesome  men," 
and  the  herders  of  opposition  sheep  and  cattle  outfits 
were  in  bitter  competition  for  free  grass.  Watson  had 
many  enemies,  and  yet  it  was  hard  to  think  that  any 

261 


THEY   OF   THE   HIGH   TRAILS 

one  of  them  would  shoot  him  at  night  through  an  open 
window,  for  such  a  deed  was  contrary  to  all  the  estab 
lished  rules  of  the  border. 

Upon  drawing  rein  at  the  porch  the  ranger  first 
examined  the  footsteps  in  the  flour  and  under  the  win 
dow,  and  was  forced  to  acknowledge  that  all  signs 
pointed  to  a  woman  assailant.  The  marks  indicated 
small,  pointed,  high-heeled  shoes,  and  it  was  plain  that 
the  prowler  had  spent  some  time  peering  in  through  the 
glass. 

For  fear  that  the  wind  might  spring  up  and  destroy 
the  evidence,  Hanscom  measured  the  prints  carefully, 
putting  down  the  precise  size  and  shape  in  his  note 
book.  He  studied  the  position  of  the  dead  man,  who 
lay  as  he  had  fallen  from  his  chair,  and  made  note  of 
the  fact  that  a  half-emptied  bottle  of  liquor  stood  on 
the  table.  The  condition  of  the  room,  though  disgusting, 
was  not  very  different  from  its  customary  disorder. 

Oppressed  by  the  horror  of  the  scene,  the  ranger  with 
drew  a  little  way,  lit  his  pipe,  and  sat  down  to  meditate 
on  the  crime. 

"I  can't  believe  a  woman  did  it,"  he  said.  And  yet 
he  realized  that  under  certain  conditions  women  can 
be  more  savage  than  men.  "If  Watson  had  been  shot 
on  a  woman's  premises  it  wouldn't  seem  so  much  like 
slaughter.  But  to  kill  a  man  at  night  in  his  own  cabin 
is  tolerably  fierce." 

That  the  sad,  lonely  woman  in  the  ranch  above  had 
anything  to  do  with  this  he  would  not  for  a  moment 
entertain. 

He  turned  away  from  the  problem  at  last  and  dozed 
in  the  sunshine,  calculating  with  detailed  knowledge  of 
the  trail  and  its  difficulties  just  how  long  it  would  take 
Kitsong  to  reach  the  coroner  and  start  back  up  the  hill. 

262 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

It  was  nearly  four  o'clock  when  he  heard  the  feet  of 
horses  on  the  bridge  below  the  ranch,  and  a  few  minutes 
later  Kitsong  came  into  view,  heading  a  motley  pro 
cession  of  horsemen  and  vehicles.  It  was  evident  that 
he  had  notified  all  his  neighbors  along  the  road,  for  they 
came  riding  in  as  if  to  a  feast,  their  eyes  alight  with  joy 
ous  interest. 

The  coroner,  a  young  doctor  named  Carmody,  took 
charge  of  the  case  with  brisk,  important  pomp,  seconded 
by  Sheriff  Throop,  a  heavy  man  with  wrinkled,  care 
worn  brow,  who  seemed  burdened  with  a  sense  of  per 
sonal  responsibility  for  Watson's  death.  He  was  all  for 
riding  up  and  instantly  apprehending  the  Kauffmans, 
but  the  coroner  insisted  on  looking  the  ground  over  first. 

"You  study  the  case  from  the  outside,"  said  he, 
'  'and  I'll  size  it  up  from  the  inside." 

As  the  dead  man  had  neither  wife  nor  children  to  weep 
for  him,  Mrs.  Kitsong,  his  sister,  a  tall,  gaunt  woman, 
assumed  the  role  of  chief  mourner,  while  Abe  went 
round  uttering  threats  about  "stringing  the  Kauffmans 
up,"  till  the  sheriff,  a  good  man  and  faithful  officer, 
jealous  of  his  authority,  interfered. 

"None  of  that  lynching  talk!  There'll  be  no  rope 
work  in  this  county  while  I  am  sheriff,"  he  said,  with 
noticeable  decision. 

In  a  few  moments  Carmody,  having  finished  his 
examination  of  the  body,  said  to  the  sheriff:  "Go  after 
this  man  Kauffman  and  his  daughter.  It  seems  they've 
had  some  trouble  with  Watson  and  I  want  to  interro 
gate  them.  Search  the  cabin  for  weapons  and  bring  all 
the  woman's  shoes,"  he  added.  And  while  the  sheriff 
rode  away  up  the  trail  on  his  sinister  errand,  Hanscom 
with  sinking  heart  remained  to  testify  at  the  inquest. 

A  coroner  in  the  mountains  seven  thousand  feet  above 
18  263 


THEY   OF    THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

the  sea-level  and  twenty  miles  from  a  court-house  must 
be  excused  for  slight  informalities  in  procedure,  and 
Carmody  confidentially  said  to  the  ranger : 

"I  don't  expect  for  a  minute  the  sheriff  will  find  the 
Kauffmans.  If  they  did  for  Watson,  they  undoubtedly 
pulled  out  hotfoot.  But  we've  got  to  make  a  bluff  at 
getting  'em,  anyway." 

To  this  the  ranger  made  no  reply,  but  a  sense  of  loss 
filled  his  heart. 

As  soon  as  the  jury  was  selected  the  condition  of  the 
body  was  noted,  and  Abe  Kitsong,  as  witness,  was  in 
the  midst  of  his  testimony  (and  the  shadows  of  the  great 
peaks  behind  the  cabin  had  brought  the  evening  chill 
into  the  air)  when  the  sheriff  reappeared,  escorting  a 
mountain  wagon  in  which  Kauffman  and  his  daughter 
were  seated. 

Hanscom  stared  in  mingled  surprise  and  dismay — 
surprise  that  they  had  not  fled  and  dismay  at  the  girl's 
predicament — and  muttered:  "Now  what  do  you  think 
of  that!  It  takes  an  Eastern  tenderfoot  to  kill  a  man 
and  then  go  quietly  home  and  wait  for  results." 

Kauffman  glared  about  him  defiantly,  but  the  face  of 
the  girl  remained  hidden  in  her  bonnet ;  only  her  bowed 
head  indicated  the  despair  into  which  she  had  fallen. 

With  a  deep  sense  of  pity  and  regret,  Hanscom  went 
to  meet  her.  "Don't  be  scared,"  he  said.  "I'll  see  that 
you  have  a  square  deal." 

She  peered  down  into  his  face  as  he  spoke,  but  made 
no  reply,  and  he  conceived  of  her  as  one  burdened  with 
grief  and  shame  and  ready  for  any  fate. 

The  sheriff,  his  face  showing  an  agony  of  perplexity, 
turned  over  to  the  coroner  all  the  weapons  and  other 
"plunder"  he  had  brought  from  the  house,  and  queru 
lously  announced  that  he  couldn't  find  a  shotgun  any- 

264 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

where  around,  and  only  one  small  rifle.     "And  there 
wasn't  a  pointed  shoe  on  the  place,"  he  added,  forcibly. 

"That  proves  nothing,"  insisted  Abe.  "They've  had 
time  to  hide  'em  or  burn  'em." 

"Well,  bring  them  both  over  here  and  let's  get  to 
business,"  said  the  coroner.  "It's  getting  late." 

As  Hanscom  assisted  the  accused  woman  from  the 
wagon  he  detected  youth  and  vigor  in  her  arm.  "Don't 
be  afraid,"  he  repeated.  "I  will  see  that  you  are  treated 
right." 

Her  hand  clung  to  his  for  an  instant  as  she  considered 
the  throng  of  hostile  spectators,  for  she  apprehended 
their  hatred  quite  as  clearly  as  she  perceived  the  chival 
rous  care  of  the  ranger,  and  she  kept  close  to  his  side  as 
he  led  the  way  to  the  cabin. 

Kauffman  was  at  once  taken  indoors,  but  the  young 
woman,  under  guard  of  a  deputy,  was  given  a  seat  on 
the  corner  of  the  porch  just  out  of  hearing  of  the  coroner's 
voice. 

Carmody,  who  carried  all  the  authority,  if  not  all  the 
forms,  of  a  court  into  his  interrogation,  sharply  ques 
tioned  the  old  man,  who  said  that  his  name  was  Frederick 
Kauffman  and  that  he  was  a  teacher  of  music. 

"I  was  born  near  Munich,"  he  added,  "but  I  have 
lived  in  this  country  forty  years,  mostly  in  Cincinnati. 
This  young  lady  is  my  stepdaughter.  It  is  for  her 
health  that  I  came  here.  She  has  been  very  ill." 

Carmody  nodded  to  the  sheriff,  and  Throop  with  a 
deep  sigh  and  most  dramatic  gesture  lifted  the  shroud 
which  concealed  the  dead  man.  "Approach  the  body," 
commanded  the  coroner,  and  the  jurors  watched  every 
motion  with  wide,  excited  eyes,  as  though  expecting  in 
voluntary  signs  of  guilt;  but  Kauffman  calmly  gazed 
upon  the  still  face  beneath  him. 

265 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

"Do  you  recognize  this  body?"  demanded  the  coroner. 

"I  do,"  said  Kauffman. 

''When  did  you  see  him  last?" 

"Oh,  two  or  three  days  ago,"  answered  KaufTman. 

"You  may  be  seated,"  said  the  coroner. 

Under  close  interrogation  the  old  man  admitted  that 
he  had  had  some  trouble  with  Watson.  "  Once  I 
forced  him  to  leave  my  premises,"  he  said.  "He  was 
drunk  and  insulting." 

"Did  you  employ  a  weapon?" 

"Only  this  "  — here  he  lifted  a  sturdy  fist — "but  it 
was  sufficient.  I  have  not  forgotten  my  gymnastic 
training." 

Prompted  by  Kitsong,  who  had  assumed  something 
of  the  attitude  of  a  prosecuting  attorney,  the  coroner 
asked,  "Has  your  daughter  ever  been  in  an  asylum?" 

Although  this  question  plainly  disturbed  him,  Kauff 
man  replied,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  "No,  sir." 

"Where  were  you  last  night?" 

"At  home." 

"Was  your  daughter  there?" 

"Yes." 

"All  the  evening?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Are  you  sure  she  did  not  leave  the  house?" 

"Perfectly  sure." 

The  coroner  took  up  a  small  rifle  which  the  sheriff 
had  leaned  against  the  wall.  "Is  this  your  rifle?" 

The  old  man  examined  it.     "I  think  so — yes,  sir." 

"Have  you  another?" 

"No,  sir." 

"That  is  all  for  the  present,  Mr.  Kauffman.  Sheriff, 
ask  Miss  Kauffman  to  come  in." 

As  the  woman  (without  the  disfiguring  head-dress 
266 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

which  she  habitually  wore)  stepped  to  the  center  of  the 
room  a  murmur  of  surprise  arose  from  the  jury  and  the 
few  spectators  who  were  permitted  to  squat  along  the 
walls.  She  not  only  appeared  young;  she  was  comely. 
Her  face,  though  darkly  tanned,  was  attractive,  and  her 
hair,  combed  rigidly  away  from  her  brow,  was  abundant 
and  glossy.  The  line  of  her  lips  was  firm  yet  sweet,  and 
her  long,  straight  nose  denoted  the  excellence  of  her 
strain.  Even  her  hands,  reddened  and  calloused  by 
labor,  were  well  kept  and  shapely.  But  it  was  through 
her  bearing  that  she  appealed  most  strongly  to  the  ranger 
and  the  coroner.  She  was  very  far  from  being  humble. 
On  the  contrary,  the  glance  which  she  directed  toward 
Carmody  was  remote  and  haughty.  She  did  not  appear 
to  notice  the  still,  sheeted  shape  in  the  corner. 

In  answer  to  a  query  she  informed  the  jury  that  her 
name  was  Helen  McLaren;  that  she  was  a  native  of 
Kentucky  and  twenty-six  years  of  age.  "  I  came  to  the 
mountains  for  my  health,"  she  said,  curtly. 

"You  mean  your  mental  health?"  queried  the  coroner. 

"Yes.  I  wanted  to  get  away  from  the  city  for  a 
while.  I  needed  rest  and  a  change." 

The  coroner,  deeply  impressed  with  her  dignity  and 
grace,  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  said:  "Now  before 
I  ask  the  next  question,  Miss  McLaren,  I  want  to  tell 
you  that  what  you  say  in  answer  may  be  used  against 
you  in  court,  and  according  to  law  you  need  not  in 
criminate  yourself.  You  understand  that,  do  you?" 

"Yes,  sir.     I  think  I  do." 

"Very  well.  Now  one  thing  more.  It  is  usual  in 
cases  of  this  kind  to  have  some  one  to  represent  you, 
and  if  you  wish  Mr.  Hanscom,  the  forest  ranger,  will 
act  for  you." 

The  glance  she  turned  on  Hanscom  confused  him,  but 
267 


THEY   OF    THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

he  said:  "  I'm  no  lawyer,  but  I'll  do  my  best  to  see  that 
you  are  treated  fairly." 

She  thanked  him  with  a  trustful  word,  and  the  coroner 
began. 

"  You  have  had  a  great  sorrow  recently,  I  believe?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"A  very  bitter  bereavement?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Have  you  any  near  relatives  living?" 

"Yes,  sir.     A  sister  and  several  aunts  and  uncles." 

"Do  they  know  where  you  are?" 

"No,  sir — at  least,  not  precisely.  They  know  I  am 
in  the  mountains." 

"Will  you  give  me  the  names  and  addresses  of  these 
relatives?" 

"I  would  rather  not,  if  you  please.  I  do  not  care  to 
involve  them  in  any  troubles  of  mine." 

"Well,  I  won't  insist  on  that  at  this  point.  But  I 
would  like  to  understand  whether,  if  I  require  it,  you  will 
furnish  this  information?" 

"Certainly.  Only  I  would  rather  not  disturb  them 
unnecessarily." 

Her  manner  not  only  profoundly  affected  the  coroner; 
it  soon  softened  the  prejudices  of  the  jury,  although  four 
of  them  were  immediate  friends  and  neighbors  of  Kit- 
song.  They  all  were  manifestly  astonished  at  the  can 
dor  of  her  replies. 

The  coroner  himself  rose  and  solemnly  disclosed  the 
corpse.  "Do  you  recognize  this  man?"  he  asked. 

She  paled  and  shrank  from  the  face,  which  was  brutal 
even  in  death,  but  answered,  quietly,  "I  do." 

"Did  you  know  him  when  alive?" 

"I  did  not." 

This  answer  surprised  both  the  coroner  and  his  jury. 
268 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

''Your  stepfather  testified  that  he  came  to  your 
home." 

"So  he  did.  But  I  refused  to  see  him.  My  step 
father  met  him  outside  the  door.  I  never  spoke  to  him 
in  my  life." 

"You  may  be  seated  again,"  said  Carmody,  and  after 
a  slight  pause  proceeded:  "Why  did  you  dislike  the 
deceased?  Was  he  disrespectful  to  you?" 

"He  was." 

"In  what  way?" 

She  hesitated  and  flushed.     "He  wrote  to  me." 

"More  than  once?" 

"Yes,  several  times." 

"Have  you  those  letters?" 

"No;  I  destroyed  them." 

"Could  you  give  me  an  idea  of  those  letters?" 

Hanscom  interposed :  ' '  She  can't  do  that,  Mr.  Coroner. 
It  is  evident  that  they  were  vile." 

The  coroner  passed  this  point.  "You  say  he  called 
at  your  house — how  many  times?" 

"Two  or  three,  I  think." 

"Was  your  father  at  home  each  time?" 

"Once  I  was  alone." 

"Did  you  meet  Watson  then?" 

"No.  I  saw  him  coming  in  the  gate  and  I  went  in 
side  and  locked  the  door." 

"What  happened  then?" 

"He  beat  on  the  door,  and  when  I  failed  to  reply  he 
went  away." 

"Was  he  drunk?" 

"He  might  have  been.  He  seemed  more  like  an  in 
sane  man  to  me." 

Kitsong  broke  in,  "I  don't  believe  all  this — " 

"When  was  that?" 

269 


THEY    OF   THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

"Night  before  last,  at  about  this  time  or  a  little 
earlier." 

"Was  he  on  foot?" 

"No;   he  came  on  horseback." 

"Did  he  ride  away  on  horseback?" 

"Yes,  though  he  could  scarcely  mount.  I  was  sur 
prised  to  see  how  well  he  was  able  to  manage  his  horse." 

"Did  you  tell  your  father  of  this?" 

"No." 

"Why  not?" 

She  hesitated.  "He  would  have  been  very — very 
much  disturbed." 

"You  mean  he  would  have  been  angry?" 

"Yes." 

The  coroner  suddenly  turned  the  current  of  his  in 
quiry.  "Do  you  always  wear  shoes  such  as  you  now 
have  on?" 

Every  eye  in  the  room  was  directed  toward  her  feet, 
which  were  shod  in  broad-toed,  low-heeled  shoes. 

She  was  visibly  embarrassed,  but  she  answered,  com 
posedly:  "I  do — yes,  sir.  In  fact,  I  go  barefoot  a  great 
deal  while  working  in  the  garden.  The  doctor  ordered 
it,  and,  besides,  the  ordinary  high-heeled  shoes  seem 
foolish  up  here  in  the  mountains." 

"Will  you  be  kind  enough  to  remove  your  shoe?  I 
would  like  to  take  some  measurements  from  it." 

She  flushed  slightly,  but  bent  quickly,  untied  the 
laces,  and  removed  her  right  shoe. 

The  coroner  took  it.  "Please  remain  where  you  are, 
Miss  McLaren."  Then  to  the  jury,  who  appreciated 
fully  the  importance  of  the  moment,  "We  will  now 
compare  this  shoe  with  the  footprints." 

"Don't  be  disturbed,  miss,"  whispered  the  ranger. 
"I  know  the  size  and  shape  of  those  footprints." 

270 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

The  sheriff  cleared  the  way  to  the  porch,  where  the 
little  patch  of  flour  had  been  preserved  by  ropes  stretched 
from  post  to  post,  and  the  outside  crowd,  pressing  closer, 
watched  breathlessly  while  the  jury  bent  together  and 
compared  the  shoes  and  the  marks. 

It  required  but  a  few  moments'  examination  to  dem 
onstrate  that  the  soles  of  the  accused  woman's  shoes 
were  larger  and  broader  and  entirely  different  in  every 
way. 

"She  may  have  worn  another  shoe,"  Kitsong  put  in. 

"Of  course!  We'll  find  that  out,"  retorted  the 
coroner. 

As  they  returned  to  the  room  Hanscom  said  to  the 
witness:  "Now  be  very  careful  what  you  reply.  Take 
plenty  of  time  before  you  answer.  If  you  are  in  doubt, 
say  nothing." 

In  the  sympathy  of  his  glance  her  haughty  pose  re 
laxed  and  her  eyes  softened.  "You  are  very  kind," 
she  said. 

"I  don't  know  a  thing  about  law,"  he  added,  apolo 
getically,  "but  I  may  be  able  to  help  you." 

The  coroner  now  told  the  jury  that  Mr.  Hanscom,  as 
representing  the  witness  at  the  hearing,  would  be  allowed 
to  ask  any  questions  he  pleased  before  the  end  of  the 
hearing. 

"But  I  must  insist  upon  taking  measurements  of  your 
bare  feet,  Miss  McLaren." 

The  jury  grinned  and  the  girl  flushed  with  anger,  but 
at  a  word  from  the  ranger  yielded  and  drew  off  her  stock 
ing. 

Hanscom,  while  assisting  the  coroner  in  measurements, 
said,  "I'm  sorry,  miss,  but  it  is  necessary." 

The  examination  proved  that  her  bare  foot  was  near 
ly  two  sizes  wider  and  at  least  one  size  longer  than  the 

271 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

footprints  in  the  flour.  Furthermore,  it  needed  but  a 
glance  for  the  jury,  as  well  as  the  doctor,  to  prove  that 
she  had  been  going  barefoot,  as  she  claimed,  for  many 
weeks.  Her  foot  was  brown  and  her  toes  showed  noth 
ing  of  the  close  confinement  of  a  pointed  shoe. 

Carmody,  returning  to  his  seat,  conferred  with  the 
jmy,  designating  the  difference  between  the  telltale 
marks  on  the  porch  and  the  feet  of  the  witness,  and 
Hanscom  argued  that  the  woman  who  made  the  tell 
tale  tracks  must  have  been  small. 

"Miss  McLaren  could  not  possibly  wear  the  shoe  that 
left  those  marks  in  the  flour,"  he  said. 

"We  are  on  the  wrong  trail,  I  guess,"  one  of  the  jury 
frankly  stated.  "I  don't  believe  that  girl  was  ever  on 
the  place.  If  she  or  the  old  man  had  been  guilty,  they 
wouldn't  have  been  hanging  around  home  this  morn 
ing.  They'd  have  dusted  out  last  night." 

And  to  this  one  other  agreed.     Four  remained  silent. 

The  ranger  seized  on  these  admissions.  "There  is 
nothing,  absolutely  nothing,  to  connect  the  tracks  in 
the  flour  with  the  person  who  did  the  shooting.  It  may 
have  been  done  by  another  visitor  at  another  time." 

"Well,"  decided  the  coroner,  "it's  getting  dark  and 
not  much  chance  for  hotel  accommodations  up  here,  so 
I  guess  we'd  better  adjourn  this  hearing."  He  turned 
to  Helen.  "That's  all,  Miss  McLaren." 

As  Hanscom  handed  back  her  shoe  he  said:  "I  hope 
you  won't  worry  another  minute  about  this  busi 
ness,  miss.  The  jury  is  certain  to  report  for  'persons 
unknown.'" 

"I'm  very  grateful  for  your  kindness,"  she  answered, 
feelingly.  "I  felt  so  utterly  helpless  when  I  came  into 
the  room." 

"You've  won  even  the  jury's  sympathy,"  he  said. 
272 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

Nevertheless,  as  she  left  the  room,  he  followed  closely, 
for  the  Kitsongs,  who  had  been  denied  admittance,  were 
openly  voicing  their  dissatisfaction  with  the  coroner's 
verdict.  "She  ought  to  be  held,  and  the  old  man  ought 
to  be  held,"  they  insisted. 

"One  or  the  other  of  them  shot  Watson,"  declared 
Abe  to  Carmody.  "No  matter  if  the  girl's  foot  doesn't 
just  exactly  fit  the  tracks.  She  could  jam  her  foot  into 
a  narrow  shoe  if  she  tried,  couldn't  she?  If  you  let  that 
girl  pull  the  wool  over  your  eyes  like  that  you  ain't  fit 
to  be  coroner." 

Carmody's  answer  was  to  the  point.  "The  thing  for 
your  crowd  to  do  is  to  quit  chewing  the  rag  and  get 
this  body  down  the  valley  and  decently  buried.  I  can't 
stand  around  here  all  night  listening  to  amateur  attor 
neys  for  the  prosecution." 

"Vamose!"  called  the  sheriff,  and  in  ten  minutes  the 
crowd  was  clattering  down  the  trail  in  haste  to  reach 
food  and  shelter,  leaving  the  Kauffmans  to  take  their 
homeward  way  alone. 

Hanscom  helped  the  girl  into  the  wagon  and  rode 
away  up  the  valley  close  behind  her,  his  mind  filled  with 
the  singular  story  which  she  had  so  briefly  yet  powerfully 
vSuggested.  That  she  was  a  lady  masquerading  in  rough 
clothing  was  evident  even  before  she  spoke,  and  the 
picture  she  made,  sitting  in  the  midst  of  that  throng  of 
rough  men  and  slatternly  women,  had  profoundly  stirred 
his  imagination.  He  longed  to  know  more  of  her  his 
tory,  and  it  was  the  hope  of  still  further  serving  her 
which  led  him  to  ride  up  alongside  the  cart  and  say : 

"Here's  where  my  trail  forks,  but  I  shall  be  very  glad 
to  go  up  and  camp  down  at  your  gate  if  you  feel  at  all 
nervous  about  staying  alone." 

Kauffman,  who  had  regained  his  composure,  an- 
273 


THEY  OF  THE   HIGH   TRAILS 

swered,  "We  have  no  fear,  but  we  are  deeply  grateful 
for  your  offer." 

The  ranger  dismounted  and  approached  the  wagon, 
as  if  to  bring  himself  within  reach,  and  the  girl,  looking 
down  at  him  from  her  seat  with  penetrating  glance,  said : 

"Yes,  we  are  greatly  indebted  to  you." 

"If  I  can  be  of  any  further  help  at  any  time,"  the 
young  forester  said,  a  little  hesitatingly,  "  I  hope  you  will 
let  me  know."  His  voice  so  sincere,  his  manner  so  un 
assuming,  softened  her  strained  mood. 

"You  are  very  kind,"  she  answered,  with  gentle  dig 
nity.  "But  the  worst  of  this  trial  is  over  for  us.  I 
cannot  conceive  that  any  one  will  trouble  us  further. 
But  it  is  good  to  know  that  we  have  in  you  a  friend. 
The  valley  has  always  resented  us." 

He  was  not  yet  satisfied.  "I  wish  you'd  let  me  drop 
around  to-morrow  or  next  day  and  see  how  you  all  are. 
It  would  make  me  feel  a  whole  lot  better." 

The  glance  which  she  gave  him  puzzled  and,  at  the 
moment,  daunted  him.  She  seemed  to  search  his  soul, 
as  if  in  fear  of  finding  something  unworthy  there.  At 
last  she  gave  him  her  strong,  brown  hand. 

"Come  when  you  can.  We  shall  always  be  glad  to 
see  you." 

in 

Hanscom  rode  away  up  the  trail  in  a  singularly  exalted 
mood.  The  girl  with  whom  he  had  been  so  suddenly 
related  in  a  coroner's  inquest  filled  his  mind  to  the  ex 
clusion  of  all  else.  He  saw  nothing,  heard  nothing  of 
the  forest.  Helen's  sadness,  her  composure,  her  aloof 
ness,  engaged  his  imagination. 

"She's  been  sick  and  she's  been  in  trouble,"  he  de- 
274 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

cided.  "She's  out  here  to  get  away  from  somebody 
or  something." 

Over  and  over  again  he  recounted  her  words,  lingering 
especially  upon  the  sweetness  of  her  voice  and  the  search 
ing  quality  of  that  last  look  she  had  given  him.  He  un 
saddled  his  horse  mechanically,  and  went  about  his  cabin 
duties  with  listless  deftness. 

Lonely,  cut  off  from  even  the  most  formal  intercourse 
with  marriageable  maidens,  he  was  naturally  extremely 
susceptible  to  the  charm  of  this  cultivated  woman.  The 
memory  of  her  handsome  foot,  the  clasp  of  her  strong 
fingers,  the  lines  of  her  lovely  neck — all  conspired  to  dull 
his  appetite  for  food  and  keep  him  smoking  and  musing 
far  into  the  night,  and  these  visions  were  with  him  as 
he  arose  the  next  morning  to  resume  his  daily  duties  in 
the  forest.  They  did  not  interrupt  his  work;  they 
lightened  it. 

As  the  hours  went  by,  the  desire  to  see  her  grew  more 
and  more  intense,  and  at  last,  a  couple  of  days  later 
while  riding  the  trail  not  far  above  the  Kauffman  ranch, 
he  decided  that  it  was  a  part  of  his  day's  work  to  "scout 
round "  that  way  and  inquire  how  they  were  all  getting 
on.  He  was  strengthened  in  this  determination  by  the 
reports  which  came  to  him  from  the  ranchers  he  met. 
No  other  clue  had  developed,  and  the  Kitsongs,  highly 
incensed  at  the  action  of  the  jury,  not  only  insisted  that 
the  girl  was  the  murderess,  but  that  the  doctor  was 
shielding  her  for  reasons  of  his  own — and  several  went 
so  far  as  to  declare  their  intention  to  see  that  the  Kauff- 
mans  got  their  just  punishment. 

It  is  true,  the  jury  admitted  that  they  were  divided 
in  their  opinion,  but  that  the  coroner's  attitude  brought 
about  a  change  of  sentiment.  The  fact  that  the  woman 
didn't  wear  and  couldn't  wear  so  small  a  shoe  was  at 

275 


THEY   OF    THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

the  moment  convincing.  It  was  only  later,  when  the 
Kitsong  sympathizers  began  to  argue,  that  they  hesi 
tated. 

Mrs.  Abe  Kitsong  was  especially  bitter,  and  it  was 
her  influence  which  brought  out  an  expression  of  settled 
purpose  to  punish  which  led  to  the  ranger's  decision  to 
go  over  and  see  if  the  old  German  and  his  daughter  were 
undisturbed. 

As  he  turned  in  at  the  Kauffman  gate  he  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  girl  hoeing  in  the  garden,  wearing  the 
same  blue  sunbonnet  in  which  she  had  appeared  at  the 
inquest.  She  was  deeply  engaged  with  her  potatoes 
and  did  not  observe  him  till,  upon  hearing  the  clatter 
of  his  horse's  hoofs  upon  the  bridge,  she  looked  up  with 
a  start.  Seeing  in  him  a  possible  enemy,  she  dropped 
her  hoe  and  ran  toward  the  house  like  a  hare  seeking 
covert.  As  she  reached  the  corner  of  the  kitchen  she 
turned,  fixed  a  steady  backward  look  upon  him,  and 
disappeared. 

Hanscom  smiled.  He  had  seen  other  women  hurry 
ing  to  change  their  workaday  dress  for  visitors,  and  he 
imagined  Helen  hastily  putting  on  her  shoes  and  smooth 
ing  her  hair.  He  was  distinctly  less  in  awe  of  her  by 
reason  of  this  girlish  action — it  made  her  seem  more 
of  his  own  rough-and-ready  world,  and  he  dismounted 
at  her  door  almost  at  his  ease,  although  his  heart  had 
been  pounding  furiously  as  he  rode  down  the  ridge. 

She  surprised  him  by  reappearing  in  her  working- 
gown,  but  shod  with  strong,  low-heeled  shoes.  "Good 
evening,  Mr.  Forest  Ranger,"  she  said,  smiling,  yet 
perturbed.  "I  didn't  recognize  you  at  first.  Won't 
you  ' picket'  and  come  in?"  She  said  this  in  the  tone  of 
one  consciously  assuming  the  vernacular. 

"Thank  you,  I  believe  I  will,"  he  replied,  with  candid 
276 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

heartiness.  "I  was  riding  one  of  my  lower  trails  to 
day,  so  I  just  thought  I'd  drop  down  and  see  how  you 
were  all  coming  on." 

"We  are  quite  well,  thank  you.  Daddy's  away  just 
this  minute.  One  of  our  cows  hid  her  calf  in  the  hills, 
and  he's  trying  to  find  it.  Won't  you  put  your  horse 
in  the  corral?" 

"No;  he's  all  right.  He's  a  good  deal  like  me — works 
better  on  a  small  ration.  A  standing  siesta  will  just 
about  do  him." 

A  gleam  of  humor  shone  in  her  eyes.  "Neither  of 
you  'pear  to  be  suffering  from  lack  of  food.  But  come 
in,  please,  and  have  a  seat." 

He  followed  her  into  the  cabin,  keenly  alive  to  the 
changes  in  her  dress  as  well  as  in  her  manner.  She  wore 
her  hair  plainly  parted,  as  at  the  hearing,  but  it  lay  much 
lower  about  her  brow  and  rippled  charmingly.  She  stood 
perfectly  erect,  also,  and  moved  with  a  fine  stride,  and 
the  lines  of  her  shoulders,  even  under  a  rough  gray 
shirtwaist,  were  strong  and  graceful.  Though  not  skilled 
in  analyzing  a  woman's  "outfit,"  the  ranger  divined 
that  she  wore  no  corset,  for  the  flex  of  her  powerful  waist 
was  like  that  of  a  young  man. 

Her  speech  was  noticeably  Southern  in  accent,  as  if 
it  were  a  part  of  her  masquerade,  but  she  brought  him 
a  chair  and  confronted  him  without  confusion.  In  this 
calm  dignity  he  read  something  entirely  flattering  to 
himself. 

"Evidently  she  considers  me  a  friend  as  well  as  an 
officer,"  he  reasoned. 

"I  hope  you  are  a  little  hungry,"  she  said.  "I'd  like 
to  have  you  break  bread  in  our  house.  You  were  mighty 
kind  to  us  the  other  day." 

"Oh,  I'm  hungry,"  he  admitted,  meeting  her  hos- 
277 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

pitality  half-way.  "Seems  like  I'm  always  hungry. 
You  see,  I  cook  my  own  grub,  and  my  bill  of  fare  isn't 
what  you'd  call  extensive,  and,  besides,  a  man's  cook 
ing  never  relishes  the  way  a  woman's  does,  anyhow." 

"I'll  see  what  I  can  find  for  you,"  she  said,  and  hur 
ried  out. 

While  waiting  he  studied  the  room  in  which  he  sat 
with  keenest  interest.  It  was  rather  larger  than  the 
usual  living-room  in  a  mountain  home,  but  it  had  not 
much  else  to  distinguish  it.  The  furniture  was  of  the 
kind  to  be  purchased  in  the  near-by  town,  and  the  walls 
were  roughly  ceiled  with  cypress  boards;  but  a  few 
magazines,  some  books  on  a  rude  shelf,  a  fiddle-box 
under  the  table,  and  a  guitar  hanging  on  a  nail  gave 
evidence  of  refinement  and  taste  and  spoke  to  him  of 
pleasures  which  he  had  only  known  afar.  The  guitar 
especially  engaged  his  attention.  "I  wonder  if  she 
sings?"  he  asked  himself. 

Musing  thus  in  silence,  he  heard  her  moving  about 
the  kitchen  with  rapid  tread,  and  when  she  came  in, 
a  few  minutes  later,  bearing  a  tray,  he  thought  her 
beautiful — so  changed  was  her  expression. 

"I  didn't  wait  for  the  coffee,"  she  smilingly  explained. 
"You  said  you  were  hungry  and  so  I  have  brought  in 
a  little  'snack.'  The  coffee  will  be  ready  soon." 

"Snack!"  he  exclaimed.  "Lady!  This  is  a  feast!" 
And  as  she  put  the  tray  down  beside  him  he  added: 
"This  puts  me  right  back  in  Aunt  Mary's  house  at 
Circle  Bend,  Nebraska.  I  don't  rightly  feel  fit  to  sit  op 
posite  a  spread  like  that." 

She  seemed  genuinely  amused  by  his  extravagance. 
"It's  nothing  but  a  little  cold  chicken  and  some  light 
bread.  I  made  the  bread  yesterday;  and  the  rasp 
berry  jam  is  mine  also." 

278 


THE  AUTHOR  AND  A  FOREST  RANGER 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

"It's  angels'  food  to  me,"  he  retorted,  as  he  eyed 
the  dainty  napkins  and  the  silver  spoons  and  forks. 
"You  don't  know  what  this  means  to  a  man  who  lives 
on  rice  and  prunes  and  kittle  bread.  I  have  a  guilty 
feeling;  I  do,  indeed.  Seems  like  I'm  getting  all  this 
thanksgiving  treat  under  false  pretenses.  Perhaps  you 
think  I'm  an  English  nobleman  in  disguise.  But  I'm 
not — I'm  just  a  plain  dub  of  a  forest  ranger,  ninety  dol 
lars  a  month  and  board  myself." 

She  laughed  at  his  disclaimer,  and  yet  under  her 
momentary  lightness  he  still  perceived  something  of 
the  strong  current  of  bitter  sadness  which  had  so  pro 
foundly  moved  him  at  the  inquest  and  which  still  re 
mained  unexplained;  therefore  he  hesitated  about  re 
ferring  to  the  Watson  case. 

As  he  ate,  she  stood  to  serve  him,  but  not  with  the 
air  of  a  serving-maid ;  on  the  contrary,  though  her  face 
was  bronzed  by  the  winds,  and  her  hands  calloused  by 
spade  and  hoe,  there  was  little  of  the  rustic  in  her  action. 
Her  blouse,  cut  sailor  fashion  at  the  throat,  displayed  a 
lovely  neck  (also  burned  by  the  sun),  and  she  carried 
herself  with  the  grace  of  an  athlete.  Her  trust  and  con 
fidence  in  her  visitor  became  more  evident  each  moment. 

"No,"  she  said  in  answer  to  his  question.  "We 
hardly  ever  have  visitors.  Now  and  then  some  cowboy 
rides  past,  but  you  are  almost  the  only  caller  we  have 
ever  had.  The  settlers  in  the  valley  do  not  attract 
me." 

"I  should  think  you'd  get  lonesome." 

She  looked  away,  and  a  sterner,  older  expression  came 
into  her  face.  "I  do,  sometimes,"  she  admitted;  then 
she  bravely  faced  him.  ' '  But  my  health  is  so  much  better 
— it  was  quite  broken  when  I  came — that  I  have  every 
reason  to  be  thankful.  After  all,  health  is  happiness.  I 
19  279 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

ought  to  be  perfectly  content,  and  I  am  when  I  think 
how  miserable  I  once  was." 

"Health  is  cheap  with  me,"  he  smilingly  replied. 
"But  I  get  so  lonesome  sometimes  that  I  pretty  near 
quit  and  go  out.  Do  you  intend  to  stay  here  all 
winter?" 

"We  expect  to." 

He  thought  it  well  to  warn  her.  "The  snow  falls 
deep  in  this  valley — terribly  deep." 

She  showed  some  uneasiness.  "I  know  it,  but  I'm 
going  to  learn  to  snow-shoe." 

"I  wish  you'd  let  me  come  over  and  teach  you." 

"Can  you  snow-shoe?  I  thought  rangers  always  rode 
horseback." 

He  smiled.  "You've  been  reading  the  opposition 
press.  A  forest  ranger  who  is  on  the  job  has  got  to 
snow-shoe  like  a  Canuck  or  else  go  down  the  valley  after 
the  snow  begins  to  fall.  It  was  five  feet  deep  around 
my  cabin  last  year.  I  hate  to  think  of  your  being  here 
alone.  If  one  of  you  should  be  sick,  it  would  be — 
tough.  Unless  you  absolutely  have  to  stay  here,  I 
advise  you  to  go  down  the  creek." 

"Perhaps  our  neighbors  and  not  the  snow  will  drive 
us  out,"  she  replied.  "They've  already  served  notice." 

He  looked  startled.     "What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

Without  answering,  she  went  to  the  bookshelf  and 
took  down  a  folded  sheet  of  paper.  "Here  is  a  letter  I 
got  yesterday,"  she  explained,  as  she  handed  it  to  him. 

It  was  a  rudely  penciled  note,  but  entirely  plain  in  its 
message.  "Spite  of  what  the  coroner  found,  most  folks 
believe  you  killed  Ed  Watson,"  it  began,  abruptly. 
"Some  of  us  don't  blame  you  much.  Others  Jo,  and 
they  say  no  matter  what  the  jury  reports  you've  got  to 
go.  I  don't  like  to  see  a  woman  abused,  so  you'd  better 

280 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

take  warning  and  pull  out.  Do  it  right  away."  It  was 
signed,  "A  Friend." 

The  ranger  read  this  through  twice  before  he  spoke. 
"Did  this  come  through  the  mail?" 

"Yes — addressed  to  me." 

He  pretended  to  make  light  of  it.  "I  wouldn't  spend 
much  time  over  that.  It's  only  some  smart  Aleck's 
practical  joke." 

"I  don't  think  so,"  she  soberly  replied.  "It  reads  to 
me  like  a  sincere  warning — from  a  woman.  I  haven't 
shown  it  to  daddy  yet,  and  I  don't  know  whether  to  do 
so  or  not.  I  thought  of  going  over  to  see  you,  but  I 
was  not  sure  of  the  way.  I'm  glad  Providence  sent  you 
round  to-day,  for  I  am  uncertain  about  what  to  do." 

"I'm  a  little  uneasy  about  that  warning  myself,"  he 
confessed,  after  a  pause.  "I  hear  the  Kitsong  gang  is 
bitterly  dissatisfied  with  the  result  of  the  inquest  thus 
far.  They  still  insist  on  connecting  you  in  some  way 
with  the  shooting.  Fact  is,  I  came  over  to-day  to 
see  if  they  had  made  any  new  move." 

All  the  lightness  had  gone  out  of  his  face  now,  and 
in  the  girl's  eyes  the  shadow  deepened  as  she  said: 

"It  seems  to  me  that  I  have  drawn  more  than  my  share 
of  trouble.  I  came  out  here  hoping  to  find  a  sanctuary, 
and  I  seem  to  have  fallen  into  a  den  of  wolves.  These 
people  would  hang  me  if  they  could.  I  don't  under 
stand  their  hate  of  us.  They  resent  our  being  here. 
Sometimes  I  feel  as  if  they  were  only  trying  to  drive  us 
from  our  little  ranch." 

"Of  course,  all  this  talk  of  violence  is  nonsense,"  he 
vigorously  went  on.  ''They  can  make  you  a  whole  lot 
of  discomfort,  but  you  are  in  no  danger." 

Her  glance  was  again  remote  as  she  said:  "I  cannot 
take  that  murder  case  seriously.  It  all  seems  a  thousand 

281 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

miles  away  from  me  now.  And  yet  I  am  afraid  for 
daddy's  sake.  Why  connect  me  with  it?  Is  there  no 
other  woman  to  accuse?  Do  you  suppose  a  woman  did 
the  shooting?  I  don't." 

"  No.  I  think  the  footprints  were  accidental.  I  figure 
the  killing  was  done  by  some  man  who  had  it  in  for 
Watson.  He  was  always  rowing  with  his  help,  and 
there  are  two  or  three  Mexicans  who  have  threatened 
to  get  him.  At  the  same  time,  I  don't  like  this  letter. 
They're  a  tough  lot  in  this  valley."  He  mused  a  mo 
ment.  "Yes,  I  guess  you'd  better  plan  to  go." 

Her  gaze  wandered.  "I  hate  to  leave  my  garden 
and  my  flowers,"  she  said,  sadly.  "After  all,  I've  had 
some  very  peaceful  hours  in  this  nook."  Her  face 
brightened.  She  became  the  genial  hostess  again.  "If 
you  have  finished  your  lunch,  I  wish  you  would  come 
out  and  see  my  crops." 

He  followed  her  gladly,  and  their  talk  again  became 
cheerfully  impersonal.  Truly  she  had  done  wonders  in 
a  small  space  and  in  a  short  time.  Flower-beds  glowed 
beside  the  towering  rocks.  Small  ditches  supplied  the 
plants  with  water,  and  from  the  rich  red  soil  luscious 
vegetables  and  fragrant  blooms  were  springing. 

All  animation  now,  she  pointed  out  her  victories. 
"This  is  all  my  work,"  she  explained,  proudly.  "  Daddy 
isn't  much  of  a  hand  with  the  spade  or  the  hoe.  There 
fore  I  leave  the  riding  and  the  cows  to  him.  I  love  to 
paddle  in  the  mud,  and  it  has  done  me  a  great  deal  of 
good." 

"What  will  you  do  with  all  this  'truck'?" 

"Daddy  intends  to  market  it  in  town." 

"He's  away  a  good  deal,  I  take  it." 

"Yes,  I'm  alone  often  all  day,  but  he's  always  home 
before  dark." 

282 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

He  voiced  his  concern.  "I  don't  like  to  think  of 
your  being  alone,  even  in  the  daytime."  He  spoke  as 
one  who  had  been  swiftly  advanced  from  stranger  to 
trusted  friend.  "I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do,"  he  con 
tinued,  as  if  moved  by  a  sudden  thought.  "I'll  go  into 
camp  across  the  creek  for  to-night,  and  then  if  any 
thing  goes  wrong  I'll  be  within  call." 

"Oh  no!  Don't  think  of  doing  that!  You  must  not 
neglect  your  duties.  Daddy  is  a  pretty  good  marksman, 
and  I  have  learned  to  handle  a  rifle,  and,  besides" — 
here  her  tone  became  ironic — "in  the  chivalrous  West  a 
woman  need  not  fear." 

"There  is  a  whole  lot  of  hot  air  about  that  Western 
chivalry  talk,"  he  retorted.  "Bad  men  are  just  as  bad 
here  as  anywhere,  and  they're  particularly  bad  on  the 
Shellfish.  But,  anyhow,  you'll  call  on  me  if  I  can  be 
of  any  use,  won't  you?" 

"I  certainly  shall  do  so,"  she  responded,  heartily, 
and  there  was  confidence  and  liking  in  her  eyes  as  well 
as  in  the  grip  of  her  hand  as  she  said  good-by. 

When  in  the  saddle  and  ready  to  ride  away  he  called 
to  her,  "You  won't  mind  my  coming  over  here  again 
on  Saturday,  will  you?" 

"No,  indeed.     Only  it  is  so  far." 

"Oh,  the  ride  is  nothing.  I  don't  like  to  think  of 
your  being  here  alone." 

"I'm  not  afraid.  But  we  shall  be  glad  to  see  you 
just  the  same." 

And  in  appreciation  of  her  smile  he  removed  his  hat 
and  rode  away  with  bared  head. 

The  young  ranger  was  highly  exalted  by  this  visit, 
and  he  was  also  greatly  disturbed,  for  the  more  he 
thought  of  that  warning  letter  and  the  conditions  which 
gave  rise  to  it,  the  more  menacing  it  became.  It  was 

283 


THEY   OF   THE   HIGH   TRAILS 

all  of  a  piece  with  the  tone  and  character  of  the  Shellfish 
gang,  for  this  remote  valley  had  long  borne  an  evil 
reputation,  and  Watson  and  Kitsong  had  been  its  domi 
nating  spirits  for  more  than  twenty  years  and  deeply 
resented  Kauffman's  settlement  in  the  canon. 

"It  would  be  just  like  old  Kit  to  take  the  law  into  his 
own  hands,"  the  ranger  admitted  to  himself.  "And  the 
writing  in  that  letter  looked  to  me  like  Mrs.  Abe  Kit- 
song's." 

Instead  of  going  up  to  the  Heart  Lake  sheep-camp, 
as  he  had  planned  to  do,  he  turned  back  to  his  station, 
moved  by  a  desire  to  keep  as  near  the  girl  as  his  duties 
would  permit.  "For  the  next  few  days  I'd  better  be 
within  call,"  he  decided.  "They  may  decide  to  arrest 
her — and  if  they  do,  she'll  need  me." 

He  went  about  his  evening  meal  like  a  man  under 
the  influence  of  a  drug,  and  when  he  sat  down  to  his 
typewriter  his  mind  was  so  completely  filled  with  visions 
of  his  entrancing  neighbor  that  he  could  not  successfully 
cast  up  a  column  of  figures.  He  lit  his  pipe  for  a  diver 
sion,  but  under  the  spell  of  the  smoke  his  recollection 
of  just  how  she  looked,  how  she  spoke,  how  she  smiled 
(that  sad,  half-lighting  of  her  face)  set  all  his  nerves 
atingle.  He  grew  restless. 

"What's  the  matter  with  me?"  he  asked  himself, 
sharply,  but  dared  not  answer  his  own  question.  He 
knew  his  malady.  His  unrest  was  that  of  the  lover. 
Thereafter  he  gave  himself  up  to  the  quiet  joy  of  review 
ing  each  word  she  had  uttered,  and  in  doing  so  came  to 
the  conclusion  that  she  was  in  the  mountains  not  so 
much  for  the  cure  of  her  lungs  or  throat  as  to  heal  the 
hurt  of  some  injustice.  What  it  was  he  could  not  im 
agine,  but  he  believed  that  she  was  getting  over  it.  "As 
she  gets  over  it  she'll  find  life  on  the  Shellfish  intolerable 

284 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

and  she'll  go  away,"  he  reasoned,  and  the  thought  of 
her  going  made  his  country  lonesome,  empty,  and  of 
no  account. 

"I  wish  she  wouldn't  go  about  barefoot,"  he  added, 
with  a  tinge  of  jealousy.  "And  she  mustn't  let  any 
of  the  Shellfish  gang  see  her  in  that  dress."  He  was  a 
little  comforted  by  remembering  her  sudden  flight  when 
she  first  perceived  him  coming  across  the  bridge,  and 
he  wondered  whether  the  trustful  attitude  she  afterward 
assumed  was  due  entirely  to  the  fact  that  he  was  a 
Federal  officer — he  hoped  not.  Some  part  of  it  sprang, 
he  knew,  from  a  liking  for  him. 

The  wilderness  was  no  place  for  a  woman.  It  was 
all  well  enough  for  a  vacation,  but  to  ask  any  woman  to 
live  in  a  little  cabin  miles  from  another  woman,  miles 
from  a  doctor,  was  out  of  the  question.  He  began  to 
perceive  that  there  were  disabilities  in  the  life  of  a 
forester.  His  world  was  suddenly  disorganized.  Life 
became  complex  in  its  bearings,  and  he  felt  the  stirrings 
of  new  ambitions,  new  ideals.  Civilization  took  on  a 
charm  which  it  had  not  hitherto  possessed. 

He  was  awakened  at  dawn  the  following  morning  by 
the  smell  of  burning  pine — a  smell  that  summons  the 
ranger  as  a  drum  arouses  a  soldier.  Rushing  out  of 
doors,  he  soon  located  the  fire.  It  was  off  the  forest  and 
to  the  southeast,  but  as  any  blaze  within  sight  demanded 
investigation,  he  put  a  pot  of  coffee  on  the  fire  and 
swiftly  roped  and  saddled  one  of  his  horses.  In  thirty 
minutes  he  was  riding  up  the  side  of  a  high  hill  which 
lay  between  the  station  and  Otter  Creek,  a  branch  of 
the  Shellfish,  at  the  mouth  of  which,  some  miles  below, 
stood  Kitsong's  ranch. 

It  was  not  yet  light,  the  smoke  was  widely  diffused, 
and  the  precise  location  of  the  blaze  could  not  be  deter- 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

mined,  but  it  appeared  to  be  on  the  Shellfish  side  of  the 
ridge,  just  below  Watson's  pasture.  Hence  he  kept 
due  south  over  the  second  height  which  divided  the  two 
creeks.  It  was  daylight  when  he  reached  the  second 
hogback,  and  the  smoke  of  the  fire  was  diminishing,  but 
he  thought  it  best  to  ride  on  to  renew  his  warning 
against  the  use  of  fire  till  the  autumn  rains  set  in,  and 
he  had  in  mind  also  a  plan  to  secure  from  Mrs.  Kit  song 
a  specimen  of  her  handwriting  and  to  pick  up  whatever 
he  could  in  the  way  of  gossip  concerning  the  feeling 
against  the  Kauffmans. 

He  was  still  some  miles  from  the  ranch,  and  crossing 
a  deep  ravine,  when  he  heard  the  sound  of  a  rifle  far 
above  him.  Halting,  he  listened  intently.  Another 
shot  rang  out,  nearer  and  to  the  south,  and  a  moment 
later  the  faint  reports  of  a  revolver.  This  sent  a  wave 
of  excitement  through  his  blood.  A  rifle-shot  might 
mean  only  a  poacher.  A  volley  of  revolver-shots  meant 
battle. 

Reining  his  cayuse  sharply  to  the  right  and  giving 
him  the  spur,  he  sent  him  on  a  swift,  zigzagging  scramble 
up  the  smooth  slope.  A  third  rifle-shot  echoed  from  the 
cliff,  and  was  answered  by  a  smaller  weapon,  much 
nearer,  and,  with  his  hair  almost  on  end  with  excitement, 
he  reached  the  summit  which  commanded  the  whole 
valley  of  the  Otter,  just  in  time  to  witness  the  most 
astounding  drama  he  had  ever  known. 

Down  the  rough  logging  road  from  the  west  a  team 
of  horses  was  wildly  galloping,  pursued  at  a  distance 
by  several  horsemen,  whose  weapons,  spitting  smoke  at 
intervals,  gave  proof  of  their  murderous  intent.  In  the 
clattering,  tossing  wagon  a  man  was  kneeling,  rifle  in 
hand,  while  a  woman,  standing  recklessly  erect,  urged 
the  flying  horses  to  greater  speed.  Nothing  could  have 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

been  more  desperate,  more  furious,  than  this  running 
battle. 

"My  God!  It's  the  Kauffman  team!"  he  exclaimed, 
and  with  a  shrill  shout  snatched  his  revolver  from  its 
holster  and  fired  into  the  air,  with  intent  to  announce 
his  presence  to  the  assailing  horsemen.  Even  as  he  did 
so  he  saw  one  of  the  far-off  pursuing  ruffians  draw  his 
horse  to  a  stand  and  take  deliberate  aim  over  his  saddle 
at  the  flying  wagon.  The  off  pony  dropped  in  his  traces, 
and  the  vehicle,  swinging  from  the  road,  struck  a  boulder 
and  sent  the  man  hurtling  over  the  side;  but  the  girl, 
crouching  low,  kept  her  place.  Almost  before  the  wheels 
had  ceased  to  revolve  she  caught  up  the  rifle  which  her 
companion  had  dropped  and  sent  a  shot  of  defiance 
toward  her  pursuers. 

"Brave  girl!"  shouted  Hanscom,  for  he  recognized 
Helen.  "Hold  the  fort!"  But  his  voice,  husky  with 
excitement,  failed  to  reach  her. 

She  heard  the  sound  of  his  revolver,  however,  and, 
believing  him  to  be  only  another  of  the  attacking  party, 
took  aim  at  him  and  fired.  The  bullet  from  her  rifle 
flew  so  near  his  head  that  he  heard  its  song. 

Again  her  rifle  flashed,  this  time  at  the  man  above 
her,  and  again  the  forester  shouted  her  name.  In  the 
midst  of  the  vast  and  splendid  landscape  she  seemed 
a  minute  brave  insect  defending  itself  against  invading 
beasts.  Her  pursuers,  recognizing  the  ranger's  horse, 
wheeled  their  ponies  and  disappeared  in  the  forest. 

Hanscom  spurred  his  horse  straight  toward  the  girl, 
calling  her  name,  but  even  then  she  failed  to  recognize 
him  till,  lifting  his  hat  from  his  head,  he  desperately 
shouted : 

"Don't  shoot,  girl — don't  shoot!  It's  Hanscom— 
the  ranger!" 

287 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

She  knew  him  at  last,  and,  dropping  her  rifle  to  the 
ground,  awaited  his  approach  in  silence. 

As  he  leaped  from  his  horse  and  ran  toward  her  she 
lifted  her  hands  to  him  in  a  gesture  of  relief  and  wel 
come,  and  he  took  her  in  his  arms  as  naturally  as  he 
would  have  taken  a  frightened  child  to  his  breast. 

"Great  God!  What's  the  meaning  of  all  this?"  he 
asked.  "Are  you  hurt?" 

She  was  white,  but  calm.  "No,  but  daddy  is — " 
And  they  hastened  to  where  the  old  man  lay  crumpled 
up  beside  a  rock. 

Hanscom  knelt  to  the  fallen  man  and  examined  him 
carefully.  "He's  alive — he  isn't  wounded,"  he  said. 
"He's  only  stunned.  Wait!  I'll  bring  some  water." 

Running  down  to  the  bank,  he  filled  his  hat  from  the 
flood,  and  with  this  soon  brought  the  bruised  and  sadly 
bewildered  rancher  back  to  consciousness. 

Upon  realizing  who  his  rescuer  was  Kauffman's  eyes 
misted  with  gratitude.  "My  friend,  I  thank  God  for 
you.  We  were  trying  to  find  you.  We  were  on  our 
way  to  claim  your  protection.  We  lost  our  road,  and 
then  these  bandits  assaulted  us." 

The  girl  pieced  out  this  explanation.  She  told  of 
being  awakened  in  the  night  by  a  horse's  hoofs  clattering 
across  the  bridge.  Some  one  rode  rapidly  up  to  the 
door,  dismounted,  pushed  a  letter  in  over  the  threshold, 
and  rode  away.  "I  rose  and  got  the  letter,"  she  said. 
"It  warned  us  that  trouble  was  already  on  the  way. 
'Get  out!'  it  said.  I  roused  daddy,  we  harnessed  the 
horses  and  left  the  house  as  quickly  as  we  could.  We 
dared  not  go  down  the  valley,  so  we  tried  to  reach  you 
by  way  of  the  mill.  We  took  the  wrong  road  at  the 
lake.  Our  pursuers  trailed  us  and  overtook  us,  as  you 
saw." 

288 


THE   FOREST    RANGER 

It  was  all  so  monstrous  that  the  ranger  could  scarcely 
believe  it  true — and  yet,  there  lay  the  dead  horse  and 
here  was  the  old  man  beside  the  stone.  He  did  not  refer 
to  his  own  narrow  escape,  and  apparently  Helen  did  not 
associate  him  with  the  horseman  at  whom  she  had  fired 
with  such  bewildering  zeal. 


IV 

It  was  a  rugged  and  barren  setting  for  love's  inter 
change,  and  yet  these  two  young  souls  faced  each 
other,  across  the  disabled  old  man,  with  spirits  fused  in 
mutual  understanding.  Helen's  face  softened  and  her 
eyes  expressed  the  gratitude  she  felt.  At  the  moment 
the  ranger's  sturdy  frame  and  plain,  strong-featured 
face  were  altogether  admirable  to  her.  She  relied  upon 
him  mentally  and  physically,  as  did  Kauffman,  whose 
head  was  bewildered  by  his  fall. 

Hanscom  roused  himself  with  effort.  "Well,  now, 
let's  see  what's  to  be  done  next.  One  of  your  horses 
appears  to  be  unhurt,  but  the  other  is  down."  He 
went  to  the  team  and  after  a  moment's  examination 
came  back  to  say:  "One  is  dead.  I'll  harness  my  own 
saddler  in  with  the  other,  and  in  that  way  we'll  be  able 
to  reach  my  cabin.  You  must  stay  there  for  the  present. ' ' 

Quickly,  deftly,  he  gathered  the  scattered  goods  from 
the  ground,  restored  the  seat  to  the  wagon,  untangled 
the  dead  beast  from  its  harness,  and  substituted  his  own 
fine  animal,  while  Helen  attended  to  Kauffman.  He  re 
covered  rapidly,  and  in  a  very  short  time  was  able  to 
take  his  seat  in  the  wagon,  and  so  they  started  down 
the  road  toward  the  valley. 

"It's  a  long  way  round  by  the  wagon  road,"  Hans- 
289 


THEY   OF   THE   HIGH   TRAILS 

com  explained.  "But  we  can  make  the  cabin  by  eleven, 
and  then  we  can  consider  the  next  move." 

To  this  Helen  now  made  objection.  "We  must  not 
bring  more  trouble  upon  you.  They  will  resent  your 
giving  us  shelter.  Take  us  to  the  railway.  Help  us  to 
leave  the  state.  I  am  afraid  to  stay  in  this  country 
another  night.  I  want  to  get  away  from  it  all  to-day." 

A  shaft  of  pain  touched  the  ranger's  heart  at  thought 
of  losing  her  so  soon  after  rinding  her,  and  he  said: 
"I  don't  think  that  is  necessary.  They  won't  attempt 
another  assault — not  while  you  are  under  my  protection. 
I'd  like  the  pleasure  of  defending  you  against  them," 
he  added,  grimly. 

"But  I'm  afraid  for  daddy.  I'm  sure  he  wounded 
one  of  them,  and  if  he  did  they  may  follow  us.  You 
are  very  good  and  brave,  but  I  am  eager  to  reach  the 
train.  I  want  to  get  away." 

To  this  Kauffman  added  his  plea.  "Yes,  yes,  let 
us  go,"  he  said,  bitterly.  "I  am  tired  of  these  lawless 
savages.  We  came  here,  thinking  it  was  like  Switzer 
land,  a  land  inhabited  by  brave  and  gentle  people, 
lovers  of  the  mountains.  We  find  it  a  den  of  assassins. 
If  you  can  help  us  to  the  railway,  dear  friend,  we  will 
ask  no  more  of  you  and  we  will  bless  you  always." 

The  ranger  could  not  blame  them  for  the  panic  into 
which  they  had  fallen,  and  frankly  acknowledged  that 
it  was  possible  for  Kitsong  to  make  them  a  great  deal 
of  trouble.  Reluctantly  he  consented. 

"I  am  sorry  to  have  you  go,  but  I  reckon  you're 
justified.  There  is  a  way  to  board  the  northbound 
train  without  going  to  town,  and  if  nothing  else  happens 
we'll  make  the  eastbound  express.  That  will  take  you 
out  of  the  state  with  only  one  stop." 

Conditions  were  not  favorable  for  any  further  ex- 
290 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

pression  of  the  deep  regret  he  felt,  for  the  road  was 
rough,  and  with  only  one  seat  in  the  wagon  he  was 
forced  to  perch  himself  on  his  up-ended  saddle,  and  so, 
urging  the  team  to  its  best,  he  spoke  only  to  outline  his 
plan. 

"  I'll  drive  you  to  the  Clear  Creek  siding,"  he  explained. 
"All  trains  stop  there  to  take  on  water,  and  No.  3  is 
due  round  about  one.  We  can  make  it  easily  if  nothing 
happens,  and  unless  the  Kitsong  gang  get  word  from 
some  of  these  ranches  we  pass,  you  will  be  safely  out  of 
the  country  before  they  know  you've  gone." 

They  rode  in  silence  for  some  time,  but  as  they  were 
dropping  down  into  the  hot,  dry,  treeless  foot-hills  the 
ranger  turned  to  explain:  "I'm  going  to  leave  the  main 
road  and  whip  out  over  the  mesa  just  above  the  Black 
bird  Ranch,  so  don't  be  surprised  by  my  change  of  plan. 
They  are  a  dubious  lot  down  there  at  the  Blackbird, 
and  have  a  telephone,  so  I'd  just  as  soon  they  wouldn't 
see  us  at  all.  They  might  send  word  to  Abe.  It  '11  take 
a  little  longer,  and  the  road  is  rougher,  but  our  chances 
for  getting  safely  away  are  much  better." 

"We  are  entirely  in  your  hands,"  she  answered,  with 
quiet  confidence.  Her  accent,  her  manner,  were  as 
new  to  him  as  her  dress.  She  no  longer  seemed  a  young 
girl  masquerading,  but  a  woman — one  to  whom  life  was 
offering  such  stern  drama  that  all  her  former  troubles 
seemed  suddenly  faint  and  far  away. 

Kauffman  was  still  suffering  from  his  fall,  and  it  be 
came  necessary  for  Helen  to  steady,  him  in  his  seat. 
Her  muscles  ached  with  the  strain,  but  she  made  no 
complaint,  for  she  feared  the  ranger  might  lessen  the 
speed  of  their  flight. 

Upon  turning  into  the  rough  road  which  climbed  the 
mesa,  the  horses  fell  into  a  walk,  and  the  ranger,  leaping 

291 


THEY   OF    THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

from  the  wagon,  strode  alongside,  close  to  the  seat  on 
which  the  girl  sat. 

"All  this  is  not  precisely  in  the  Service  Book,"  he  re 
marked,  with  a  touch  of  returning  humor,  "but  I  reckon 
it  will  be  accounted  'giving  aid  and  succor  to  settlers 
in  time  of  need.'" 

She  was  studying  him  minutely  at  the  moment,  and 
it  pleased  her  to  observe  how  closely  his  every  action 
composed  with  the  landscape.  His  dusty  boots,  clamped 
with  clinking  spurs,  his  weather-beaten  gray  hat,  his 
keen  glance  flashing  from  point  to  point  (nothing  es 
caped  him),  his  every  word  and  gesture  denoted  the 
man  of  outdoor  life,  self-reliant  yet  self-unconscious; 
hardy,  practical,  yet  possessing  something  that  was  re 
flective  as  well  as  brave.  Her  heart  went  out  to  him  in 
tenderness  and  trust.  Her  shadow  lifted. 

He  had  no  perception  of  himself  as  a  romantic  figure ; 
on  the  contrary,  while  pacing  along  there  in  the  dust  he 
was  considering  himself  a  sad  esquire  to  the  woman  in 
whose  worshipful  service  he  was  enlisted.  He  was  eager 
to  know  more  about  her,  and  wondered  if  she  would 
answer  if  he  were  to  ask  her  the  cause  of  her  exile.  Each 
moment  of  her  company,  each  glimpse  of  her  face,  made 
the  thought  of  losing  her  more  painful.  "Will  I  ever  see 
her  again?"  was  the  question  which  filled  his  mind. 

At  the  top  of  the  mesa  he  again  mounted  to  his  seat 
on  the  upturned  saddle,  and  kept  the  team  steadily  on 
the  trot  down  -the  swiftly  descending  road.  The  sun 
was  high  above  them  now,  and  every  mile  carried  them 
deeper  into  the  heat  and  dust  of  the  plain,  but  the  girl 
uttered  no  word  of  complaint.  Her  throat  was  parched 
with  thirst,  but  she  did  not  permit  him  to  know  even 
this,  for  to  halt  at  a  well  meant  delay.  They  rode  in 
complete  silence,  save  now  and  again  when  the  ranger 

292 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

made  some  remark   concerning  the   character  of  the 
ranches  they  were  passing. 

"We  are  down  among  the  men  of  the  future  now,"  he 
said — "the  farmers  who  carry  spades  instead  of  guns." 

Once  they  met  a  boy  on  horseback,  who  stared  at 
them  in  open-mouthed,  absorbed  interest,  and  twice 
men  working  in  the  fields  beckoned  to  them,  primi 
tively  curious  to  know  who  they  were  and  where  they 
were  going. 

But  Hanscom  kept  his  ponies  to  their  pace  and  replied 
only  by  shouting,  "Got  to  catch  the  train!"  In  such 
wise  he  stayed  them  in  their  tracks,  reluctant  but  help 
less.  At  last,  pointing  to  a  small,  wavering  speck  far 
out  upon  the  level  sod,  he  called  with  forceful  cheerful 
ness:  "There's  the  tank.  We'll  overhaul  it  in  an  hour." 
Then  he  added:  "I've  been  thinking.  What  shall  I 
do  about  the  cabin  ?  Shall  I  pack  the  furniture  and  ship 
it  to  you?" 

"No,  no.  Take  it  yourself  or  give  it  away.  I  care 
very  little  for  most  of  the  things,  except  daddy's  violin 
and  my  guitar.  Those  you  may  keep  until  we  send 
for  them." 

"I  shall  take  good  care  of  the  guitar,"  he  asserted, 
with  a  look  which  she  fully  understood.  "What  about 
the  books?" 

"You  may  keep  them  also.  We'd  like  you  to  have 
them — wouldn't  we,  daddy?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Kauffman.  "There  is  nothing  there 
of  much  value,  but  such  as  they  are  they  are  yours." 

"I  shall  store  everything,"  the  young  fellow  declared, 
firmly,  "in  the  hope  that  some  day  you  will  come 
back." 

"That  will  never  be!  My  life  here  is  ended,"  she 
asserted. 

293 


THEY   OF   THE   HIGH   TRAILS 

"You  will  not  always  feel  as  you  do  now,"  he  urged. 
"All  the  people  of  the  county  are  not  of  Watson's 
stripe." 

"That  is  true,"  she  said.  "I  shall  try  not  to  be  un 
just,  but  I  see  now  that  in  seeking  seclusion  in  that  lonely 
canon  we  thrust  ourselves  among  the  most  lawless 
citizens  of  the  state,  and  cut  ourselves  off  from  the 
very  people  we  should  have  known.  However,  I  have 
had  enough  of  solitude.  My  mind  has  changed.  This 
week's  experience  has  swept  away  the  fog  in  my  brain. 
I  feel  like  one  suddenly  awakened.  I  see  my  folly  and 
I  shall  go  back  to  my  people — to  the  city." 

The  ranger,  recognizing  something  inflexible  in  this, 
made  no  further  appeal. 

There  was  nothing  at  the  tank  but  a  small,  brown 
cottage  in  which  the  wife  of  the  Mexican  section  boss 
lived,  and  to  her  Hanscom  committed  his  charges  and 
turned  to  the  care  of  his  almost  exhausted  team.  The 
train  was  late,  the  guard  at  the  tank  said,  and  in  conse 
quence  the  ranger  was  torn  between  an  agony  of  im 
patience  and  a  dread  of  parting. 

It  was  probable  that  some  of  the  Kitsongs  were  in  the 
raiding  party,  and  if  they  were  hurt  the  Kauffmans  were 
not  safe  till  the  state  line  was  passed.  It  would  be  easy 
to  head  them  off  by  a  wire.  It  was  a  hideous  coil  to 
throw  about  a  young  girl  seeking  relief  from  some  un 
usual  sorrow,  and  though  he  longed  even  more  deeply 
to  keep  her  under  his  protection,  he  made  no  objection 
to  her  going. 

Returning  to  the  section-house,  he  shared  with  her 
the  simple  meal  which  the  reticent,  smiling  little  Mexican 
woman  had  prepared,  and  did  his  best  to  cheer  Kauff- 
man  with  a  belief  in  the  early  arrival  of  the  train. 

"It  will  be  here  soon,  I  am  sure,"  he  said. 
294 


THE   FOREST    RANGER 

Helen  detected  the  lack  of  elation  in  his  tone,  and 
understood  in  some  degree  the  sense  of  loss  which  made 
him  heartsick,  and  yet  she  could  not  bring  herself  to 
utter  words  of  comfort. 

At  the  close  of  the  meal,  as  they  set  out  to  walk  across 
the  sand  to  the  switch,  he  said  to  her:  "Am  I  never  to 
see  you  again?" 

"I  hope  so — somewhere,  somehow,"  she  replied,  eva 
sively. 

"I  wish  you'd  set  a  time  and  place,"  he  persisted.  "I 
can't  bear  to  see  you  go.  You  can't  realize  how  I  shall 
miss  you." 

A  fleeting  gleam  of  amusement  lighted  her  face.  "You 
have  known  me  only  a  few  days." 

"Oh  yes,  I  have.  I've  known  you  all  summer.  You 
kept  me  busy  thinking  about  you.  The  whole  country 
will  seem  empty  now." 

She  smiled.  "  I  didn't  know  I  filled  so  much  space  in 
the  landscape.  I  thought  I  was  but  a  speck  in  it." 
She  hesitated  a  moment,  then  added:  "I  came  out  to 
lose  myself  in  nature.  I  had  come  to  hate  men  and  to 
despise  women.  I  was  sick  of  my  kind.  I  wanted  to 
live  like  a  savage,  a  part  of  the  wild,  and  so — forget." 

"Animals  sometimes  live  alone;  savages  never  do," 
he  corrected,  "unless  they  are  outlawed  from  their 
tribe." 

"That's  what  I  tried  to  do — outlaw  myself  from  my 
tribe.  I  wanted  to  get  away  from  foolish  comment, 
from  malicious  gossip." 

"Are  you  ready  to  go  back  to  it  now — I  mean  to  the 
city?" 

"No,  not  quite;  and  yet  this  week's  experience  has 
shaken  me  and  helped  me.  You  have  helped  me,  and 
I  want  to  thank  you  for  it.  I  begin  to  believe  once 
20  295 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

more  in  good,  brave,  simple  manhood.  You  and  daddy 
have  revived  my  faith  in  men." 

"Some  man  must  have  hurt  you  mighty  bad,"  he 
said,simply.  Then  added:  "I  can't  understand  that.  I 
don't  see  how  any  man  could  do  anything  but  just 
naturally  worship  you." 

She  was  moved  by  the  sincerity  of  his  adoration,  but 
she  led  him  no  farther  in  that  direction.  "At  first  I 
thought  I  had  won  a  kind  of  peace.  I  was  almost  con 
tent  in  a  benumbed  way.  Then  came  my  arrest — and 
you.  It  was  a  rough  awakening,  but  I  begin  to  see  that 
I  still  live,  that  I  am  young,  that  I  can  become  breath 
less  with  excitement.  This  raid,  this  ride,  has  swept 
away  all  that  deathlike  numbness  which  had  fallen  upon 
me.  I've  had  my  lesson.  Now  I  can  go  back.  I  must 
get  away  from  here." 

Under  the  spell  of  her  intense  utterance  the  ranger's 
mind  worked  rapidly,  filling  in  the  pauses.  "Yes,  you'd 
better  go  away,  but  I'm  not  going  to  let  you  pass  out  of 
my  life — not  if  I  can  help  it!  I'm  going  to  resign  and 
go  where  you  go — " 

She  laid  a  protesting  hand  upon  his  arm.  "No,  no!" 
she  said.  "Don't  do  that.  Don't  resign.  Don't 
change  your  plans  on  my  account.  I'm  not  worth  such 
a  sacrifice,  such  risk." 

"You're  worth  any  risk,"  he  stoutly  retorted,  with 
some  part  of  her  own  intensity  in  his  voice.  "I  can't 
think  of  letting  you  go.  I  need  you  in  my  business." 
He  smiled  wanly.  "I'm  only  a  forest  ranger  at  ninety 
dollars  per  month,  but  I'm  going  to  be  something  else 
one  of  these  days.  I  won't  mind  a  long,  rough  trail  if 
I  can  be  sure  of  finding  you  at  the  end  of  it." 

The  far-away  whistle  of  the  train  spurred  him  into 
fierce  demand.  "You'll  let  me  write  to  you,  and  you 

296 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

will  reply  once  in  a  while, .won't  you?  It  will  give  me 
something  to  look  forward  to.  You  owe  me  that 
much!"  he  added. 

"Yes,  I  will  write,"  she  promised.  "But  I  think  it 
better  that  you  should  forget  me.  I  hope  we  have  not 
involved  you  in  any  trouble  with  your  neighbors  or  with 
the  coroner." 

"I  am  not  worrying  about  that,"  he  answered.  "I 
am  only  concerned  about  you.  I  would  go  to  jail  in  a 
minute  to  save  you  any  further  worry." 

"You  are  putting  me  so  deeply  in  your  debt  that  I 
can  never  repay  you,"  she  replied. 

"A  letter  now  and  then  will  help,"  he  suggested. 

The  train,  panting,  wheezing,  hot  with  speed,  came 
to  a  creeping  halt,  and  the  conductor,  swinging  out  upon 
the  side  track,  greeted  the  ranger  pleasantly.  "Hello, 
Hans!  What  are  you  doing  here?" 

Hanscom  returned  his  greeting  gravely.  "Billy, 
here  are  some  friends  of  mine,  just  down  from  the  hills. 
Take  good  care  of  them  for  me,  will  you?" 

"Sure  thing,  major,"  said  the  conductor.  He  helped 
Kauffman  aboard,  then  turned  to  Helen.  "Now,  lady," 
he  said,  holding  out  a  hand,  "I'm  sorry  the  step  is 
so  high,  but — " 

The  ranger,  stooping,  took  the  girl  in  his  arms  and 
set  her  feet  on  the  lower  step.  "Good-by,"  he  said, 
huskily.  Then  added:  "For  now.  Write  me  soon." 

She  turned  and  looked  down  upon  him-  with  a  faint 
smile  on  her  lips  and  a  tender  light  in  her  eyes.  "I 
promise.  Good-by,"  she  said,  and  entered  the  car. 

The  ranger  stood  for  a  long  time  gazing  after  the  train, 
then  languidly  walked  away  toward  his  team. 

Hanscom  turned  his  face  toward  the  forest  with  a 
297 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

full  knowledge  that  his  world  had  suddenly  lost  its  charm. 
At  one  moment  his  thought  went  anxiously  forward  with 
the  fugitives,  at  another  it  returned  to  confront  the 
problem  of  his  own  desires.  His  act  in  thus  assisting 
the  main  witness  to  escape  might  displease  the  court 
and  would  undoubtedly  intensify  the  dislike  which  Kit- 
song  had  already  expressed  toward  him.  "My  stay  in 
the  district  is  not  likely  to  be  as  quiet  as  it  has  been," 
he  said  to  himself. 

However,  his  own  safety  was  not  a  question  of  grave 
concern.  The  mystery  of  Watson's  death  yet  remained, 
and  until  that  was  solved  Helen  was  still  in  danger  of 
arrest.  His  mind  at  last  settled  to  the  task  of  discovering 
and  punishing  the  raiders.  Who  was  Watson's  assassin? 
What  fierce  desire  for  revenge  had  prompted  that  sav 
age  assault? 

There  was  no  necessary  connection  between  that  small 
footprint  and  the  shooting,  and  yet,  until  it  was  proved 
to  be  the  work  of  another,  suspicion  would  point  to 
Helen  as  the  only  woman  of  the  vicinity  who  had  the 
motive  for  the  deed.  To  some  the  coroner's  failure  to 
hold  her  was  almost  criminal. 

His  return  to  the  hills  was  equivalent  to  running  the 
gantlet.  From  every  ranch-gate  men  and  boys  issued, 
wall-eyed  with  curiosity.  They,  of  course,  knew  noth 
ing  of  the  raiding-party  of  the  morning,  but  they  under 
stood  that  something  unusual  had  taken  place,  for  was 
not  the  ranger's  saddle  in  his  wagon,  and  his  saddle- 
horse  under  harness,  not  to  mention  a  streak  of  blood 
along  the  flanks  of  its  mate?  The  eyes  of  these  solitary 
cattlemen  are  as  analytical  as  those  of  trained  detec 
tives.  Nothing  material  escapes  them.  Being  taught 
to  observe  from  infancy,  they  had  missed  little  of  the 
ranger's  errand, 

298 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

"Who  were  you  taking  to  the  train?"  they  asked. 

Hanscom's  defense  was  silence  and  a  species  of  jocu 
lar,  curt  evasion,  and  he  succeeded  at  last  in  getting 
past  them  all  without  resort  to  direct  and  violent  lying. 
As  he  had  reason  to  suspect  that  one,  at  least,  of  the 
riflemen  of  the  morning  belonged  to  the  Blackbird  out 
fit,  he  decided  to  avoid  that  ranch  altogether. 

It  would  be  absurd  to  claim  that  his  nerves  were  per 
fectly  calm  and  his  heart  entirely  unhurried  as  he  crept 
across  the  mesa  and  dropped  into  the  wooded  canon 
just  above  the  pasture  fence.  Although  sustained  by 
his  authority  as  a  Federal  officer,  he  was  perfectly  well 
aware  that  it  was  possible  for  him  to  meet  with  trouble 
when  the  gang  found  out  what  he  had  done. 

Another  disturbing  thought  began  to  grow  in  his 
mind.  "If  those  raiders  watched  me  go  down  the  hill, 
they  may  consider  it  a  clever  trick  to  drop  in  on  the 
Kauffman  place  and  loot  the  house.  They  know  it  is 
unguarded.  Perhaps  I  ought  to  throw  the  saddle  on 
old  Baldy  and  ride  over  there  to  make  sure  about  it." 

The  more  he  considered  this  the  more  uneasy  he  be 
came.  "They're  just  about  sure  to  run  off  the  stock, 
or  be  up  to  some  other  devilment,"  he  said.  "They 
might  set  fire  to  the  house."  In  the  end  he  roped  his 
extra  horse  and  set  out. 

Even  by  the  cut-off  it  was  a  stiff  ride,  and  it  was 
nearly  midnight  as  he  topped  the  last  ridge  and  came 
in  sight  of  the  cabin.  "Hello!"  he  exclaimed.  "Some 
body  has  moved  in.  I'm  just  in  time." 

A  light  was  gleaming  from  the  kitchen  window,  and 
the  ranger's  mind  worked  quickly.  No  one  but  mem 
bers  of  the  raiding-party  would  think  of  taking  pos 
session  of  this  cabin  so  promptly.  No  one  else  would 
know  that  the  Kauffmans  were  away.  "That  being  the 

299 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

case,"  he  said,  musingly,  "it  stands  me  in  hand  to  walk 
light  and  shifty."  And  he  kept  on  above  the  ranch 
in  order  to  drop  down  through  the  timber  of  the  canon. 

After  tethering  his  horse  upon  a  little  plot  of  grass 
just  west  of  the  garden,  he  adjusted  his  revolver  on  his 
thigh  at  the  precise  point  where  it  was  handiest,  and 
moved  forward  with  care.  "They  mustn't  have  time 
even  to  think  fight,"  he  decided. 

As  he  rounded  the  corner  of  the  stable  he  heard  the 
voice  of  a  girl  singing,  and  the  effect  of  this  upon  him 
was  greater  than  any  uproar.  It  was  uncanny.  It 
made  him  wonder  what  kind  of  woman  she  could  be 
who  could  carol  in  the  midst  of  the  band  of  raiders. 
She  might  be  more  dangerous  than  the  men.  She  cer 
tainly  added  another  complication  to  the  situation. 

Listening  closely,  he  was  able  to  detect  the  voices  of 
at  least  two  men  as  they  joined  discordantly  in  the  re 
frain  of  the  song.  It  was  evident  that  all  felt  entirely 
secure,  and  the  task  to  which  the  ranger  now  addressed 
himself  was  neither  simple  nor  pleasant.  To  take  these 
raiders  unaware,  to  get  the  upper  hand  of  them,  and  to 
bring  them  to  justice  was  a  dangerous  program,  but  he 
was  accustomed  to  taking  chances  and  did  not  hesitate 
very  long. 

Keeping  close  to  the  shadow,  he  crept  from  the  corral 
to  the  garden  fence  and  from  the  covert  of  a  clump  of 
tall  sunflowers  was  able  to  peer  into  the  cabin  window 
with  almost  unobstructed  vision.  A  woman  was  seated 
on  a  low  chair  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  playing  a  guitar 
and  singing  a  lively  song.  He  could  not  see  the  men. 
"I  wonder  if  that  door  is  locked?"  he  queried.  "If  it 
isn't,  the  job  is  easy.  If  it  is,  I'll  have  to  operate  through 
a  screen  window." 

He  remembered  that  both  doors,  front  and  back,  were 
300 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

very  strong,  for  Kauffman  had  been  careful  to  have  them 
heavily  hinged  and  double-barred.  They  could  not  be 
broken  except  with  a  sledge.  The  screen  on  the  win 
dows  could  be  ripped  off,  but  to  do  that  would  make 
delay  at  the  precise  moment  when  a  quarter  of  a  second 
would  be  worth  a  lifetime.  "No,  I've  got  to  gamble  on 
that  door  being  unlocked,"  he  concluded,  with  the 
fatalism  of  the  mountaineer,  to  whom  danger  is  an  ever- 
present  side-partner. 

With  his  revolver  in  his  hand,  he  slid  through  the 
garden  and  reached  the  corner  of  the  house  unperceived. 
The  woman  was  now  playing  a  dance  tune,  and  the 
men  were  stamping  and  shouting;  and  under  cover  of 
their  clamor  the  ranger,  stooping  low,  passed  the  win 
dow  and  laid  his  hand  on  the  knob.  The  door  yielded 
to  his  pressure,  and  swiftly,  almost  soundlessly,  he  darted 
within  and  stood  before  the  astounded  trio  like  a  ghost 
— an  armed  and  very  warlike  ghost. 

"What's  going  on  here?"  he  demanded,  pleasantly, 
as  with  weapon  in  complete  readiness  he  confronted 
them. 

He  had  no  need  to  command  quiet.  They  were  all 
schooled  in  the  rules  of  the  game  he  was  playing,  and 
understood  perfectly  the  advantage  which  he  held  over 
them.  They  read  in  his  easy  smile  and  jocular  voice 
the  deadly  determination  which  possessed  him. 

The  woman  was  sitting  in  a  low  chair  with  the  guitar 
in  her  lap  and  her  feet  stretched  out  upon  a  stool.  Her 
companions,  two  young  men,  hardly  more  than  boys, 
were  standing  near  a  table  on  which  stood  a  bottle  of 
liquor.  All  had  been  stricken  into  instant  immobility 
by  the  sudden  interruption  of  the  ranger.  Each  stared 
with  open  mouth  and  dazed  eyes. 

Hanscom  knew  them  all.  The  girl  was  the  wilful 
301 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

daughter  of  a  Basque  rancher  over  on  the  Porcupine. 
One  of  the  boys  was  Henry  Kitsong,  a  nephew  of  Abe, 
and  the  other  a  herder  named  Busby,  who  had  been  at 
one  time  a  rider  for  Watson. 

"Having  a  pleasant  time,  aren't  you?"  the  ranger 
continued,  still  retaining  his  sarcastic  intonation.  From 
where  he  stood  he  could  see  the  bottom  of  the  girl's  up 
turned  shoes,  and  his  alert  brain  took  careful  note  of 
the  size  and  shape  of  the  soles.  A  flush  of  exultation 
ran  over  him.  "Those  are  the  shoes  that  left  those 
telltale  footprints  in  the  flour,"  he  said  to  himself. 

"You  lads  had  better  let  me  have  your  guns,"  he  sug 
gested.  * '  Busby,  I'll  take  yours  first. ' ' 

The  young  ruffian  yielded  his  weapon  only  when  the 
ranger  repeated  his  request  with  menacing  intonation. 
"You  next,  Henry,"  he  said  to  Kitsong,  and,  having  thus 
cut  the  claws  of  his  young  cubs,  his  pose  relaxed.  "You 
thought  the  owners  of  the  place  safely  out  of  reach, 
didn't  you?  You  saw  me  go  down  in  the  valley  with 
them?  Well,  I  had  a  hunch  that  maybe  you'd  take 
advantage  of  my  absence,  so  I  just  rode  over.  I  was 
afraid  you  might  drop  down  here  and  break  things  up. 
You  see,  I'm  responsible  for  all  these  goods,  and  I  don't 
want  to  see  them  destroyed.  That  music-box,  for  in 
stance"  (he  addressed  the  girl);  "I  happen  to  know 
that's  a  high-priced  instrument,  and  I  promised  the 
owner  to  take  good  care  of  it.  That  bottle  you  fellows 
dug  up  I  didn't  know  anything  about,  but  I  guess  I'll 
confiscate  that  also.  It  ain't  good  for  little  boys."  He 
turned  sharply  on  Kitsong.  "Henry,  was  your  father 
in  that  band  of  sharpshooters  this  morning?" 

"No,  he  wasn't,"  blurted  the  boy.  "And  I  wasn't, 
either." 

"We'll  see  about  that  in  the  morning.  Which  of  you 
3°2 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

rode  a  blaze-faced  sorrel?"  Neither  answered,  and 
Hanscom  said,  contentedly:  "Oh,  well,  we'll  see 
about  that  in  the  morning." 

Hanscom  had  drawn  close  to  the  girl,  who  remained 
as  if  paralyzed  with  fright.  "Sefiorita,  I  reckon  I'll 
have  to  borrow  one  of  your  shoes  for  a  minute."  As  he 
stooped  and  laid  hold  of  her  slipper  Busby  fell  upon 
him  with  the  fury  of  a  tiger. 

Hanscom  was  surprised,  for  he  had  considered  the 
fellow  completely  cowed  by  the  loss  of  his  revolver.  He 
could  have  shot  him  dead,  but  he  did  not.  He  shook 
him  off  and  swung  at  him  with  the  big  seven-shooter 
which  he  still  held  in  his  hand.  The  blow  fell  upon  the 
young  fellow's  cheek-bone  with  such  stunning  force  that 
he  reeled  and  fell  to  the  floor. 

Young  Kitsong  cried  out,  "You've  killed  him!" 

"What  was  he  trying  to  do  to  me?"  retorted  Hans 
com.  "Now  you  take  that  kerchief  of  yours  and  tie 
his  hands  behind  him.  If  either  of  you  makes  another 
move  at  me,  you'll  be  sorry.  Get  busy  now." 

Young  Kitsong  obeyed,  awed  by  the  ranger's  tone, 
and  Busby  was  soon  securely  tied.  He  writhed  like  a 
wildcat  as  his  strength  came  back,  but  he  was  helpless, 
for  Hanscom  had  taken  a  hand  at  lashing  his  feet  to 
gether.  There  was  something  bestial  in  the  boy's  fury. 
He  would  have  braved  the  ranger's  pistol  unhesitating 
ly  after  his  momentary  daze  had  passed,  for  he  had  the 
blind  rage  of  a  trapped  beast,  and  his  strength  was 
amazing. 

During  all  this  time  the  girl  remained  absolutely 
silent,  her  back  against  the  wall,  as  if  knowing  that  her 
capture  would  come  next.  Hanscom  fully  expected  her 
to  take  a  hand  in  the  struggle,  but  he  was  relieved — 
greatly  relieved — by  her  attitude  of  non-resistance. 

303 


THEY    OF    THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

"Now,  Henry,"  he  said,  with  a  breath  of  relief,  "I 
can't  afford  to  let  either  you  or  the  senorita  out  of  my 
sight.  I  reckon  you'll  both  have  to  sit  right  here  and 
keep  me  company  till  morning.  Mebbe  the  senorita 
will  bustle  about  and  make  a  pot  of  coffee — that  '11  help 
us  all  to  keep  awake.  But  first  of  all  I  want  both  her 
slippers.  Bring  'em  to  me,  Henry." 

Kitsong  obeyed,  and  the  girl  yielded  the  slippers,  the 
soles  of  which  seemed  to  interest  Hanscom  very  deeply. 

He  continued  with  polite  intonation,  "  We'll  all  start 
down  the  valley  at  daybreak." 

"What  do  you  want  of  me?"  asked  the  girl,  hoarsely. 

"I  want  you  as  a  witness  to  the  assault  Busby  made 
on  me;  and  then,  you  see,  you're  all  housebreakers" — 
he  waved  his  hand  toward  the  front  window,  from  which 
the  screen  had  been  torn  and  the  glass  broken — "and 
housebreaking  is  pretty  serious  business  even  in  this 
country.  Furthermore,  you  were  all  concerned  in  that 
raid,  and  I'm  going  to  see  that  you  all  feel  the  full  weight 
of  the  law." 

All  the  time  he  was  talking  so  easily  and  so  con 
fidently  he  was  really  saying  to  himself:  "To  take  you 
three  to  jail  will  be  like  driving  so  many  wolves  to 
market — but  it's  got  to  be  done." 

He  was  tired,  irritable,  and  eager  to  be  clear  of  it  all. 
His  own  cabin  at  the  moment  seemed  an  ideally  peaceful 
retreat.  Only  his  belief  that  in  this  girl's  small  shoe 
lay  the  absolute  proof  of  Helen's  innocence  nerved  him 
to  go  on  with  his  self-imposed  duty.  His  chief  desire 
was  to  place  these  shoes  in  the  coroner's  hands  and  so 
end  all  dispute  concerning  the  footprints  in  the  flour. 

The  girl,  whose  name  was  Rita,  sullenly  made  coffee, 
and  as  she  brought  it  to  him,  he  continued  his  interro 
gation  : 

3°4 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

"  How  did  you  get  here?" 

"I  rode." 

"Over  the  trail?     Across  the  divide?" 

"Yes." 

"Were  you  in  the  raid  this  morning?" 

"What  raid?     I  don't  know  of  any  raid." 

He  knew  she  was  lying,  but  he  only  said,  "When  did 
you  leave  home?" 

"Three  days  ago." 

"Where  have  you  been?" 

"In  camp." 

"Where?" 

She  pointed  up  the  stream. 

"How  long  have  you  been  acquainted  with  this  man 
Busby?" 

Here  he  struck  upon  something  stubborn  and  hard  in 
the  girl's  nature.  She  refused  to  reply. 

"When  were  you  over  here  last?" 

A  warning  word  from  Busby  denoted  that  he  under 
stood  the  course  of  the  ranger's  questioning  and  was 
anxious  to  strengthen  her  resistance. 

Hanscom  had  several  hours  in  which  to  ponder,  and 
soon  arrived  at  a  fairly  accurate  understanding  of  the 
whole  situation.  He  remembered  vaguely  the  report 
of  a  row  between  Watson  and  Busby,  and  he  was  aware 
of  the  reckless  cruelty  of  the  dead  man.  It  might  be 
that  in  revenge  for  some  savagery  on  his  part,  some 
graceless  act  toward  Rita,  this  moody,  half-insane 
youth  had  crept  upon  the  rancher  and  killed  him. 

He  turned  to  young  Kitsong.  "I  haven't  seen  you 
lately.  Where  have  you  been?" 

"Over  on  the  Porcupine." 

"Working  on  Gonzales's  ranch?" 

"Yes,  part  of  the  time." 

305 


THEY   OF   THE   HIGH   TRAILS 

''Does  your  father  know  you  are  back  in  the  valley?" 

"No — yes,  he  does,  too!" 

"You  fired  that  shot  that  killed  the  horse,  didn't 
you?" 

Young  Kitsong  betrayed  anxiety.  "I  don't  know 
what  you  are  talking  about." 

"Which  of  you  rode  the  blaze-faced  sorrel?" 

In  spite  of  himself  the  boy  glanced  quickly  at  the 
girl,  who  shook  her  head. 

Hanscom  addressed  himself  to  her.  "Senorita,  which 
of  your  friends  rode  the  blaze-faced  sorrel?" 

Her  head  dropped  in  silent  refusal  to  answer. 

"Oh,  well,"  said  the  ranger,  "we'll  find  out  in  the 
course  of  time.  My  eyesight  is  pretty  keen,  and  I  can 
swear  that  it  was  the  man  on  the  sorrel  horse  that 
fired  the  shot  that  stopped  the  Kauffman  team.  Now 
one  or  the  other  of  you  will  have  to  answer  to  that 
charge."  His  voice  took  on  a  sterner  note.  "What 
were  you  doing  on  Watson's  porch  last  Saturday?" 

The  girl  started  and  flushed.    "I  wasn't  on  his  porch." 

"Oh  yes,  you  were!  You  didn't  know  you  left  your 
footprints  in  some  flour  on  the  floor,  did  you?" 

Her  glance  was  directed  involuntarily  toward  her 
feet,  as  if  in  guilty  surprise.  It  was  a  slight  but  con 
vincing  evidence  to  the  ranger,  who  went  on: 

"Who  was  with  you — Busby  or  Henry?" 

"Nobody  was  with  me.  I  wasn't  there.  I  haven't 
been  in  the  valley  before  for  weeks." 

"You  didn't  go  there  alone.  You  wouldn't  dare  to 
go  alone  in  the  night,  and  the  man  who  was  with  you 
killed  Watson." 

She  sat  up  with  a  gasp,  and  young  Kitsong  stared. 
Their  surprise  was  too  genuine  to  be  assumed.  "What's 
that  you  say?  Watson  killed?" 

306 


THE    FOR;       .     KAr.GER 

"Yes.  Watson  was  shot  Monday  night.  Didn't  you 
know  that?  Where  have  you  been  that  you  haven't 
heard  of  it?" 

Young  Kitsong  was  all  readiness  to  answer  now. 
"We've  been  up  in  the  hills.  We  have  a  camp  up 
there." 

"Oh,"  said  Hanscom,  "kind  of  a  robbers'  den,  eh? 
Has  Busby  been  with  you?" 

"Sure  thing.     We've  all  been  fishing  and  hunting — 
Here  he  stopped  suddenly,  for  to  admit  that  he  had 
been  hunting  out  of  season  was  to  lay  himself  liable 
to  arrest  as  a  poacher  on  the  forest.     He  went  on:   "We 
all  came  down  here  together." 

"What  were  you  doing  chasing  that  team?  What 
was  the  game  in  that?" 

"Well,  he  shot  at  us  first,"  answered  the  boy. 

And  Busby  shouted  from  his  position  in  the  corner  on 
the  floor,  "Shut  up,  you  fool!" 

The  ranger  smiled.  "Oh,  it's  got  to  all  come  out, 
Busby.  I  saw  the  man  on  the  sorrel  horse  fire  that 
shot— don't  forget  that.  And  I  know  who  made  the 
tracks  in  the  flour.  But  I  am  beginning  to  wonder  if 
you  had  anything  to  do  with  warning  the  Kauffmans 
to  get  out." 

He  had  indeed  come  to  the  end  of  his  questioning, 
for  his  captives  refused  to  utter  another  word,  and  he 
himself  fell  silent,  his  mind  engaged  with  the  intricacies 
of  this  problem.  It  might  be  that  these  young  dare 
devils  just  happened  to  meet  Kauffman  on  the  road 
and  decided  to  hold  him  up.  It  was  possible  that  they 
knew  nothing  of  the  warnings  which  had  been  sent. 
But  in  that  case,  who  pushed  that  final  warning 
under  the  door?  Who  let  them  know  of  trouble  from 
above? 

3°7 


THEY   OF    THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

Dawn  was  creeping  up  the  valley,  and,  calling  young 
Kit  song  from  the  doze  into  which  he  had  fallen,  he  said : 
"Now,  Henry,  I'm  going  to  take  this  bunch  down  to  the 
sheriff,  and  you  might  as  well  make  up  your  mind  to 
it  first  as  last.  You  go  out  and  saddle  up  while  the 
senorita  heats  up  some  more  coffee,  and  we'll  get  ready 
and  start." 

Hanscom  was  by  no  means  as  confident  as  his  voice 
sounded,  and,  as  the  young  fellow  rose  to  go,  only  half 
expected  him  to  show  his  face  again.  "Well,  let  him 
slip,"  he  said  to  himself.  "Ill  be  safer  without  him." 

Busby  spoke  up  from  the  floor.  "You  stay  with  the 
game,  Hank,  and  you  ride  your  own  horse." 

"You  bet  I'll  ride  my  own  horse,"  Kitsong  violently 
retorted,  from  the  doorway. 

The  girl,  who  understood  the  significance  of  this  con 
troversy,  interposed.  "I'll  ride  the  sorrel.  He's  my 
horse,  anyway." 

Hanscom  mockingly  chimed  in.  "That's  mighty  fine 
and  self-sacrificing,  but  it  won't  do.  The  rider  who 
fired  that  shot  was  a  man.  But  I'll  leave  it  to  Henry. 
Bring  around  the  horses,  and  remember,  if  you  slip 
out  with  that  bay  horse  I'll  know  you  rode  the  sorrel 
yesterday." 

The  situation  had  become  too  complicated  for  the  girl, 
who  fell  silent,  while  Busby  cursed  the  ranger  in  fierce, 
set  terms.  "What  right  have  you  got  to  arrest  us, 
anyhow?" 

"All  the  right  I  need.  That  shooting  began  inside 
the  forest  boundary,  and  it's  my  duty  to  see  that  you 
are  placed  in  the  hands  of  the  law."  Here  his  voice 
took  on  a  note  of  grim  determination.  "And  I  want 
you  to  understand  there  will  be  no  funny  business  on 
the  way  down." 

308 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

"How  can  I  ride,  all  tied  up  like  this?"  demanded  the 
ruffian. 

"Oh,  I'm  going  to  untie  you,  and  you  are  going  to  come 
along  quietly — either  as  live  stock  or  freight — you  can 
take  your  choice." 

Busby,  subdued  by  several  hours  on  the  floor,  was 
disposed  to  do  as  he  was  told,  and  Hanscom  unbound 
his  legs  and  permitted  him  to  rise. 

As  young  Kitsong  brought  the  horses  around  in  front 
of  the  cabin,  Hanscom  was  not  disappointed  in  finding 
the  girl's  saddle  on  the  sorrel.  He  made  no  comment. 

"Now,  Busby,  we'll  mount  you  first,"  he  said,  and 
slipped  the  bridle  from  the  horse.  "You  see,  to  make 
sure  of  you  I  am  going  to  lead  your  pony."  He  then  un 
tied  the  youth's  hands.  "Climb  on!"  he  commanded. 

Busby  silently  mounted  to  his  saddle,  the  girl  took  the 
sorrel,  and  at  command  Kitsong  started  down  the  trail. 

"You  go  next/'  said  Hanscom  to  the  girl,  "now  you, 
Busby,"  he  added,  and  with  the  rope  across  the  horse's 
rump — the  trick  of  a  trained  trailer — he  started  down 
the  trail. 

Sinister  as  this  small  procession  really  was,  it  would 
have  appeared  quite  innocent  to  a  casual  observer  as 
it  went  winding  down  the  hill.  No  one  at  a  little  dis 
tance  would  have  been  able  to  tell  that  in  the  silent 
determination  of  the  horseman  in  the  rear  lay  the  only 
law,  the  only  bond  which  kept  these  four  riders  in  line. 
Neither  Busby  nor  Kitsong  nor  the  girl  doubted  for  an 
instant  that  if  any  of  them  made  a  deflection,  a  rush  for 
freedom,  they  would  be  shot.  They  knew  that  as  a 
Federal  officer  he  had  certain  authority.  Just  how  much 
authority  they  could  not  determine,  but  they  were  aware 
that  the  shooting  had  begun  in  the  forest,  which  was 
his  domain. 

309 


THEY   OF   THE   HIGH   TRAILS 

As  they  sighted  Watson's  cabin  Hanscom  was  curious 
to  know  whether  nearing  the  scene  of  the  crime  would 
have  any  perceptible  effect  on  Busby.  "Will  he  betray 
nervousness?"  he  asked  himself. 

Quite  the  contrary.  As  he  came  opposite  the  house, 
Busby  turned  in  his  saddle  and  asked,  "When  was 
Watson  killed?" 

' '  Nobody  knows  exactly.  Some  time  Monday  night, ' ' 
answered  the  ranger. 

A  few  miles  down  the  road  they  met  a  rancher  coming 
up  the  valley  with  a  timber-wagon,  and  to  him  the  ranger 
explained  briefly  the  nature  of  his  expedition,  and  said: 

"Now,  Tom,  I  reckon  you'll  have  to  turn  around  and 
help  me  take  these  youngsters  to  the  sheriff.  I  would 
rather  have  them  in  your  wagon  than  on  horseback." 

The  rancher  consented  with  almost  instant  readiness. 

The  prisoners  were  transferred  to  the  wagon,  and  in 
this  way  the  remainder  of  the  trip  was  covered. 


The  county  jail  was  a  square,  brick  structure  stand 
ing  in  the  midst  of  a  grove  of  small  cottonwood-trees 
(planted  in  painful  rows),  and  the  sheriff's  office  and 
his  wife's  parlor,  situated  on  opposite  sides  of  the  hall, 
occupied  the  front  part  of  the  first  story,  while  the 
rear  and  the  basement  served  as  kitchen  and  dungeon 
keep.  Generally  the  lockup  was  empty  and  the  build 
ing  quite  as  decorous  as  any  other  on  the  street,  al 
though  at  certain  times  it  resounded  with  life.  On  this 
day  it  was  quiet,  and  Throop  and  his  wife,  who  served 
as  matron,  were  sitting  under  a  tree  as  the  rancher's 
wagon  halted  before  the  gate. 

It  was  about  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  and 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

Hanscom's  prisoners  were  dusty,  tired,  and  sullen  as 
they  filed  up  the  walk  toward  the  sheriff,  who  awaited 
their  approach  with  an  inquiring  slant  to  his  huge  head. 
Mrs.  Throop  retreated  to  the  house. 

When  at  close  range  Hanscom  with  a  weary  smile 
said,  "  I've  brought  you  some  new  boarders,  Mr.  Sheriff." 

"So  I  see,"  said  the  officer,  as  he  motioned  them  to 
enter  the  door.  "What's  it  all  about?" 

"It's  a  long  story,"  replied  the  ranger,  "and  of  course 
I  can't  go  into  it  here,  but  I  want  you  to  take  charge 
of  these  people  while  I  see  Carmody  and  find  out  what 
he  wants  done  with  them.  I  think  he'll  find  them  valu 
able  witnesses.  Incidentally  I  may  say  they've  been 
shooting  a  horse  and  breaking  and  entering  a  house." 

The  sheriff  was  deeply  impressed  with  this  charge. 
"Well,  well!"  he  said,  studying  with  especial  care  the 
downcast  face  of  the  girl.  "I  thought  it  might  be  only 
killing  game  out  of  season,  stealing  timber,  or  some  such 
thing."  He  called  a  deputy.  "Here,  Tom,  take  these 
men  into  the  guard-room,  and,  Mrs.  Throop,  you  look 
after  this  girl  while  I  go  over  the  case  with  Mr.  Hans 
com." 

"Don't  let  'em  talk  with  anybody,"  warned  the  ranger. 

The  sheriff  passed  the  word  to  the  deputy,  "That's 
right,  Tom." 

In  deep  relief  the  ranger  followed  the  sheriff  into  his 
private  office  and  dropped  into  a  seat.  "Jeerusalem! 
I'm  tired!"  he  exclaimed.  "That  was  a  nervous  job!" 

"Cut  loose,"  said  the  sheriff. 

Hanscom  then  related  as  briefly  as  he  could  the  story 
of  the  capture.  At  the  end  he  confessed  that  he  had 
hardly  expected  to  reach  town  with  all  of  them.  "I 
had  no  authority  to  arrest  them.  I  just  bluffed  them, 
as  well  as  the  rancher  who  drove  the  wagon,  into 
21 


THEY   OF    THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

thinking  I  had.  I  wanted  them  for  Carmody  to  ques 
tion, -and  I  hung  to  the  girl  because  I  believe  she  can 
absolutely  clear  Kauffman  and  his  daughter  of  any 
connection — " 

Throop,  who  had  listened  intently,  now  broke  out: 
"Well,  I  hope  so.  That  old  man  and  his  girl  sure  are 
acquiring  all  kinds  of  misery.  Kitsong  got  Carmody 
to  issue  a  warrant  for  them  yesterday,  and  I  wired  the 
authorities  at  Lone  Rock  and  had  them  both  taken 
from  the  train." 

The  ranger's  face  stiffened  as  he  stared  at  the  officer. 
"You  did!" 

"I  did,  and  they're  on  their  way  back  on  No.  6." 

"How  could  Carmody  do  that?"  Hanscom  demanded, 
hotly.  "He  told  them  to  go — I  heard  him." 

"He  says  not.  He  says  he  just  excused  the  girl  for 
the  time  being.  He  declares  now  that  he  expected  them 
both  to  stay  within  call,  and  when  he  heard  they  were 
running  away — " 

"How  did  he  know  they  were  running  away?" 

"Search  me!  Some  one  on  the  train  must  have 
wired  back." 

"More  likely  the  Blackbird  Ranch  'phoned  in.  They 
are  all  related  to  Watson.  I  was  afraid  of  them."  He 
rose.  "Well,  that  proves  that  Abe  and  his  gang  were 
at  the  bottom  of  that  raid." 

"Maybe  so,  but  I  don't  see  how  Carmody  can  go 
into  that — his  job  is  to  find  the  man  or  woman  who 
killed  Watson." 

"Well,  there's  where  I  come  in.  I've  got  the  girl 
who  made  those  tracks  on  the  floor." 

The  sheriff  was  thoughtful.  "I  guess  you'd  better 
call  up  Carmody — he's  the  whole  works  till  his  verdict 
is  rendered,  and  he  ought  to  be  notified  at  once." 

312 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

A  moment's  talk  with  the  doctor's  office  disclosed 
the  fact  that  he  was  out  in  the  country  on  a  medical 
trip,  and  would  not  return  till  late.  "Reckon  we'll 
have  to  wait,"  said  the  sheriff. 

The  ranger's  face  fell.  After  a  pause  he  asked,  "  When 
does  that  train  get  in?" 

"About  six;  it's  an  hour  late." 

"And  they'll  be  jailed?" 

"Sure  thing!  No  other  way.  Carmody  told  me  to 
take  charge  of  them  and  see  that  they  were  both  on 
hand  to-morrow." 

Hanscom's  fine  eyes  flamed  with  indignation.  "It's 
an  outrage.  That  girl  is  as  innocent  of  Watson's  kill 
ing  as  you  are.  I  won't  have  her  humiliated  in  this 
way." 

"You  seem  terribly  interested  in  this  young  lady," 
remarked  Throop,  with  a  grin. 

Hanscom  was  in  no  mood  to  dodge.  "I  am — and 
I'm  going  to  save  her  from  coming  here  if  I  can."  He 
started  for  the  door.  "I'll  see  Judge  Brinkley  and  get 
her  released.  Carmody  has  no  authority  to  hold  her." 

"I  hope  you  succeed,"  said  the  sheriff,  sympathetic 
ally;  "but  at  present  I'm  under  orders  from  the  coroner. 
It's  up  to  him.  So  you  think  you've  got  the  girl  who 
made  them  tracks?" 

"  I  certainly  do,  and  I  want  you  to  hold  these  prisoners 
till  Carmody  gets  home.  Don't  let  anybody  see  them, 
and  don't  let  them  talk  with  one  another.  They'll  all 
come  before  that  jury  to-morrow,  and  they  mustn't  have 
any  chance  to  frame  up  a  lie." 

"All  right.  I  see  your  point.  Go  ahead.  Your  pris 
oners  will  be  here  when  you  come  back." 

Hanscom  went  away,  raging  against  the  indignity 
which  threatened  Helen.  At  Carmody 's  office  he  waited 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

an  hour,  hoping  the  coroner  might  return,  and,  in  de 
spair  of  any  help  from  him,  set  out  at  last  for  Brinkley's 
office,  resolute  to  secure  the  judge's  interference. 

The  first  man  he  met  on  the  street  stopped  him  with 
a  jovial  word:  "Hello,  Hans!  Say,  you  want  to  watch 
out  for  Abe  Kitsong.  He  came  b'ilin'  in  half  an  hour  ago, 
and  is  looking  for  you.  Says  you  helped  that  Dutch 
man  and  his  girl  (or  wife,  or  whatever  she  is)  to  get 
away,  and  that  you've  been  arresting  Henry,  his  nephew, 
without  a  warrant,  and  he  swears  he'll  swat  you  good 
and  plenty,  on  sight." 

Hanscom's  voice  was  savage  as  he  replied:  "You  tell 
him  that  I'm  big  enough  to  be  seen  with  the  naked  eye, 
and  if  he  wants  me  right  away  he'll  find  me  at  Judge 
Brinkley's  office." 

The  other  man  also  grew  serious.  "All  the  same, 
Hans,  keep  an  eye  out,"  he  urged.  "Abe  is  sure  to  make 
you  trouble.  He's  started  in  drinking,  and  when  he's 
drunk  he's  poisonous  as  a  rattler." 

"All  right.  I'm  used  to  rattlers — I'll  hear  him  be 
fore  he  strikes.  He's  a  noisy  brute." 

The  ranger  could  understand  that  Rita's  father  might 
very  naturally  be  thrown  into  a  fury  of  protest  by  the 
news  of  his  daughter's  arrest,  but  Kitsong's  concern 
over  a  nephew  whom  he  had  not  hitherto  regarded  as 
worthy  the  slightest  care  did  not  appear  especially  logi 
cal  or  singularly  important. 

Brinkley  was  not  in  his  office  and  so  Hanscom  went 
out  to  his  house,  out  on  the  north  bend  of  the  river  in 
a  large  lawn  set  with  young  trees. 

The  judge,  seated  on  his  porch  in  his  shirt-sleeves, 
exhibited  the  placid  ease  of  a  man  whose  office  work  is 
done  and  his  grass  freshly  sprinkled. 

"Good    evening,    Hanscom,"    he    pleasantly    called. 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

"Come  up  and  have  a  seat  and  a  smoke  with  the  gar 
dener." 

"I  have  but  a  moment,"  the  ranger  replied,  and 
plunged  again  into  the  story,  which  served  in  this  in 
stance  as  a  preface  to  his  plea  for  intervention.  "You 
must  help  me,  Judge.  Miss  McLaren  must  not  go  to 
jail.  To  arrest  her  in  this  way  a  second  time  is  a  crime. 
She's  a  lady,  Judge,  and  as  innocent  of  that  shooting 
as  a  child." 

"You  surprise  me,"  said  Brinkley.  "According  to 
all  reports  she  is  very,  very  far  from  being  a  lady." 

Hanscom  threw  out  his  hands  in  protest.  "They're 
all  wrong,  Judge.  I  tell  you  she  is  a  lady,  and  young 
and  handsome." 

"Handsome  and  young!"  The  judge's  eyes  took  on 
a  musing  expression.  "Well,  well!  that  accounts  for 
much.  But  what  was  she  doing  up  there  in  the  com 
pany  of  that  old  Dutchman?" 

"I  don't  know  why  she  came  West,  but  I'm  glad  she 
did.  I'm  glad  to  have  known  her.  That  old  Dutchman, 
as  you  call  him,  is  her  stepfather  and  a  fine  chap." 

"But  Carmody  has  arrested  her.  What  caused  him 
to  do  that?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  can't  understand  it.  It  may  be 
that  Kitsong  has  put  the  screws  on  him  some  way." 

The  judge  reflected.  "As  the  only  strange  woman 
in  the  valley,  the  girl  naturally  falls  under  suspicion 
of  having  made  those  footprints." 

"I  know  it,  Judge,  but  you  have  only  to  see  her — to 
hear  her  voice — to  realize  how  impossible  it  is  for  her 
to  kill  even  a  coyote.  All  I  ask,  now,  is  that  you  save 
her  from  going  to  jail." 

"I  don't  see  how  I  can  interfere,"  Brinkley  answered, 
with  gentle  decision.  "As  coroner,  Carmody  has  the 


THEY    OF    THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

case  entirely  in  his  hands  till  after  the  verdict.  But 
don't  take  her  imprisonment  too  hard,"  he  added,  with 
desire  to  comfort  him.  "Throop  has  a  good  deal  of 
discretion  and  I'll  'phone  him  to  make  her  stay  as  little 
like  incarceration  as  possible.  You  see,  while  nominally 
she's  only  a  witness  for  the  state,  actually  she's  on  trial 
for  murder,  and  till  you  can  get  your  other  woman  be 
fore  the  jury  she's  a  suspect.  If  you  are  right,  the  jury 
will  at  once  bring  in  a  verdict  against  other  parties, 
known  or  unknown,  and  she  will  be  free — except  that 
she  may  have  to  remain  to  testify  in  her  own  case  against 
the  raiders.  Don't  worry,  my  dear  fellow.  It  will  come 
out  all  right." 

Hanscom  was  now  in  the  grasp  of  conflicting  emo 
tions.  In  spite  of  Brinklcy's  refusal  to  interfere,  he 
could  not  deny  a  definite  feeling  of  pleasure  in  the  fact 
that  Helen  was  returning  and  that  he  was  about  to  see 
her  again.  "Anyhow,  I  have  another  opportunity  to 
serve  her,"  he  thought,  as  he  turned  down  the  street 
toward  the  station.  "Perhaps  after  the  verdict  she 
will  not  feel  so  eager  to  leave  the  country." 


Meanwhile  the  fugitives  on  the  westbound  express 
were  nearing  the  town  in  charge  of  the  marshal  of  Lone 
Rock,  and  Helen  (who  had  telegraphed  her  plight  to 
Hanscom  and  had  received  no  reply)  was  in  silent  dread 
of  the  ordeal  which  awaited  her.  Her  confidence  in  the 
ranger  had  not  failed,  but,  realizing  how  difficult  it  was 
to  reach  him,  she  had  small  hope  of  seeing  his  kindly 
face  at  the  end  of  her  journey. 

"He  may  be  riding  some  of  those  lonely  heights  this 
316 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

moment,'*  she  thought,  and  wondered  what  he  would  do 
if  he  knew  that  she  was  returning,  a  prisoner.  "He 
would  come  to  me,"  she  said,  in  answer  to  her  own 
question,  and  the  thought  that  in  all  that  mighty  spread 
of  peak  and  plain,  he  was  the  one  gracious  and  kindly 
soul  lent  a  kind  of  glamour  to  his  name.  ''After  all, 
a  loyal  soul  like  his  is  worth  more  than  any  mine  or 
mountain,"  she  acknowledged. 

The  marshal,  a  small,  quaint,  middle-aged  person  with 
squinting  glance  and  bushy  hair,  was  not  only  very 
much  in  awe  of  his  lovely  prisoner,  but  so  accustomed 
to  going  about  in  his  shirt-sleeves  that  he  suffered 
acutely  in  the  confinement  of  his  heavy  coat.  Never 
theless,  in  spite  of  his  discomfort,  he  was  very  con 
siderate  in  a  left-handed  way,  and  did  his  best  to  conceal 
the  official  relationship  between  himself  and  his  wards. 
He  not  only  sat  behind  them  all  the  way,  but  he  made 
no  attempt  at  conversation,  and  for  these  favors  Helen 
was  genuinely  grateful.  Only  as  they  neared  the  station 
did  he  venture  to  address  her. 

"Now  the  sheriff  will  probably  be  on  hand,"  he  said; 
"and  if  he  is  I'll  just  naturally  turn  you  over  to  him; 
but  in  case  he  isn't  I'll  have  to  take  you  right  over  to 
the  jail.  I'm  sorry,  but  that's  my  orders.  So  if  you'll 
kindly  step  along  just  ahead  of  me,  people  may  not 
notice  you're  in  my  charge." 

Helen  assured  him  that  she  would  obey  every  sug 
gestion,  and  that  she  deeply  appreciated  his  courtesy. 

Kauffman's  spirit  was  sadly  broken.  His  age,  the 
rough  usage  of  the  day  before,  and  this  unwarranted 
second  arrest  had  combined  to  take  away  from  him  a 
large  part  of  his  natural  courage.  He  insisted  that 
Helen  should  wire  her  Eastern  friends,  stating  the  case 
and  appealing  for  aid. 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

"We  need  help  now,"  he  said.  "We  are  being  per 
secuted/' 

Helen,  however,  remembering  Carmody's  kindness, 
said:  "Don't  be  discouraged,  daddy.  It  may  be  that 
we  are  only  witnesses  and  that  after  we  have  testified 
we  shall  be  released.  Wait  until  to-morrow;  I  hate  to 
announce  new  troubles  to  my  relatives." 

"But  we  shall  need  money,"  he  said,  anxiously. 
"We  have  only  a  small  balance." 

It  was  nearly  six  o'clock  as  they  came  winding  down 
between  the  grassy  buttes  which  formed  the  gateway 
to  the  town,  and  the  girl  recalled,  with  a  wave  of  self- 
pity,  the  feeling  of  exaltation  with  which  she  had  first 
looked  upon  that  splendid  purple-walled  canon  rising 
to  the  west.  It  had  appealed  to  her  at  that  time  as 
the  gateway  to  a  mystic  sanctuary.  Now  it  was  but 
the  lair  of  thieves  and  murderers,  ferocious  and  ob 
scene.  Only  one  kindly  human  soul  dwelt  among  those 
majestic,  forested  heights. 

She  was  pale,  sad,  but  entirely  composed,  and  to  Hans- 
corn  very  beautiful,  as  she  appeared  in  the  vestibule 
of  the  long  day-coach,  but  her  face  flushed  with  pleas 
ure  at  sight  of  him,  and  as  she  grasped  his  hand  and 
looked  into  his  fine  eyes  something  warm  and  glowing 
flooded  her  heart. 

"Oh,  how  relieved  I  am  to  find  you  here!"  she  ex 
claimed,  and  her  lips  trembled  in  confirmation  of  her 
words.  "I  did  not  expect  you.  I  was  afraid  my  tele 
gram  had  not  reached  you." 

"Did  you  telegraph  me?"  he  asked.  "I  didn't  get 
it — but  I'm  here  all  the  same,"  he  added,  and  fervently 
pressed  the  hands  which  she  had  allowed  him  to  retain. 

Oblivious  of  the  curious  crowd,  she  faced  him  in  a 
sudden  realization  of  her  dependence  upon  him,  and 

318 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

her  gratitude  for  his  stark  manliness  was  so  deep,  so 
full,  she  could  have  put  her  hands  about  his  neck. 
How  dependable,  how  simple,  how  clear-eyed  he  was! 

He  on  his  part  found  her  greatly  changed  in  both 
face  and  voice.  She  seemed  clothed  in  some  new, 
strange  dignity,  and  yet  her  glance  was  less  remote, 
less  impersonal  than  before  and  her  pleasure  at  sight 
of  him  deeply  gratifying.  In  spite  of  himself  his  spirits 
lightened. 

"I  have  a  lot  to  tell  you,"  he  began,  but  the  sheriff 
courteously  interposed: 

"Put  her  right  into  my  machine —  You  go  too, 
Hanscom." 

"I  couldn't  prevent  this,"  he  began,  sorrowfully,  as 
he  took  a  seat  beside  her;  "but  you  will  not  be  put 
into  a  cell.  Mrs.  Throop  will  treat  you  as  a  guest." 

The  self-accusation  in  his  voice  moved  her  to  put 
her  hand  on  his  arm  in  caressing  reassurance.  "Please 
don't  blame  yourself  about  that,"  she  said.  "I  don't 
mind.  It's  only^for  the  night,  anyway.  Let  us  think 
of  to-morrow." 

The  ride  was  short  and  Mrs.  Throop,  a  tall,  dark, 
rather  gloomy  woman,  came  to  the  door  to  meet  her 
guests  with  the  air  of  an  old-fashioned  village  hostess, 
serious  but  kindly. 

"Mrs.  Throop,"  said  her  husband.  "This  is  Miss 
McLaren  and  her  father,  Mr.  Kauffman.  Make  them 
as  comfortable  as  you  can." 

Mrs.  Throop  greeted  Helen  with  instant  kindly  in 
terest.  "I  am  pleased  to  know  you.  Come  right  in. 
You  must  be  tired." 

"I  am,"  confessed  the  girl,  "very  tired  and  very 
dusty.  I  hope  you  always  put  your  prisoners  under  the 
hose." 

319 


THEY    OF    THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

"I'll  give  you  my  spare  chamber,"  replied  the  matron, 
with  abstracted  glance.  "It's  next  the  bath-room. 
I'm  sorry,  but  I  guess  your  father  '11  have  to  go  down 
below." 

''What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

The  sheriff  explained,  "The  cells  are  below." 

Helen  was  instantly  alarmed.  "Oh  no!"  she  pro 
tested.  "My  father  is  not  at  all  well.  Please  give  him 
my  room.  I'll  go  down  below." 

"It  won't  be  necessary  for  either  of  you  to  go  be 
low,"  interposed  the  sheriff.  "Hanscom,  I'll  put  Kauff- 
man  in  your  charge.  You  can  take  him  to  your  board 
ing-house  if  you  want  to." 

"You're  very  kind,"  said  Helen,  with  such  feeling 
that  the  sheriff  reacted  to  it.  "I  hope  it  won't  get 
you  into  trouble." 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  it  will,"  he  said,  cheerily.  "So 
long  as  I  know  he's  safe,  it  don't  matter  where  he 
sleeps." 

"Well,   you'd  better   all   stay   to   supper,    anyhow," 
said  Mrs.  Throop.     "It's  ready  and  waiting." 

No  one  but  Helen  perceived  anything  unusual  in 
this  hearty  offhand  invitation.  To  Hanscom  it  was 
just  another  instance  of  Western  hospitality,  and  to 
the  sheriff  a  common  service,  and  so  a  few  minutes 
later  they  all  sat  down  at  the  generous  table,  in  such 
genial  mood  (with  Mrs.  Throop  doing  her  best  to  make 
them  feel  at  home)  that  all  their  troubles  became  less 
than  shadows. 

Although  disinclined  to  go  into  a  detailed  story  of 
his  return  to  the  hills,  Hanscom  described  the  capture 
of  the  housebreakers  and,  in  spite  of  a  careful  avoid 
ance  of  anything  which  might  sound  like  boasting,  dis 
closed  the  fact  that  at  the  moment  when  he  threw  open 

320 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

the  door  of  the  cabin  he  had  exposed  himself  to  the 
weapons  of  a  couple  of  reckless  young  outlaws  and  might 
have  been  killed. 

"You  shouldn't  have  risked  that,"  Helen  protested. 
"Our  poor  possessions  are  not  worth  such  cost." 

"I  couldn't  endure  the  notion  of  those  hoodlums  loot 
ing  the  place,"  he  explained. 

At  the  thought  of  Rita  (who  was  occupying  a  cell  in 
the  women's  ward)  Helen  grew  a  little  sad,  for,  accord 
ing  to  the  ranger's  own  account,  she  was  hardly  more 
than  a  child,  and  had  been  led  away  by  her  first  passion. 

At  the  close  of  the  meal,  upon  Mrs.  Throop's  house 
wifely  invitation,  they  all  took  seats  in  the  "front 
room"  and  Helen  quite  forgot  that  she  was  a  prisoner, 
and  the  ranger  almost  returned  to  boyhood  as  he  faced 
the  marble-topped  table,  the  cabinet  organ,  and  the 
enlarged  family  portraits  on  the  walls,  for  of  such 
quality  were  his  mother's  adornments  in  the  old  home 
at  Circle  Bend.  Something  vaguely  intimate  and  a  little 
confusing  filled  his  mind  as  he  listened  to  the  voice  of 
the  woman  before  him.  Only  by  an  effort  could  he  con 
nect  her  with  the  cabin  in  the  high  valley.  She  was 
becoming  each  moment  more  alien,  more  aloof,  but  at 
the  same  time  more  desirable,  like  the  girls  he  used  to 
worship  in  the  church  choir. 

Speech  was  difficult  with  him,  and  he  could  only  re 
peat:  "It  makes  me  feel  like  a  rabbit  to  think  I  could 
not  keep  you  from  coming  here,  and  the  worst  of  it  is 
I  had  nothing  to  offer  as  security.  All  I  have  in  the 
world  is  a  couple  of  horses,  a  saddle,  and  a  typewriter." 

"It  really  doesn't  matter,"  she  replied  in   hope   of 
easing  his  mind.     "  See  how  they  treat  us !     They  know 
.we're  unjustly  held  and  that  we  shall  be  set  free  to 
morrow." 

321 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

Strange  to  say,  this  did  not  lighten  his  gloom.  "And 
then — you  will  go  away,"  he  said,  soberly. 

"Yes;  we  cannot  remain  here." 

"And  I  shall  never  see  you  again,"  he  pursued. 

Her  face  betrayed  a  trace  of  sympathetic  pain.  "  Don't 
say  that!  Never  is  such  a  long  time." 

"And  you'll  forget  us  all  out  here — " 

"I  shall  never  forget  what  you  have  done,  be  sure  of 
that,"  she  replied. 

Nevertheless,  despite  the  tenderness  of  her  tone  and 
her  gratitude  openty  expressed,  something  disconcert 
ing  had  come  into  her  eyes  and  voice.  She  was  more 
and  more  the  lady  and  less  and  less  the  recluse,  and 
as  she  receded  and  rose  to  this  higher  plane,  the  ranger 
lost  heart,  almost  without  knowing  the  cause  of  it. 

At  last  he  turned  to  KaufTman.  "I  suppose  we'd 
better  go,"  he  said.  "You  look  tired." 

"I  am  tired,"  the  old  man  admitted.  "Is  it  far  to 
your  hotel?" 

"Only  a  little  way." 

"Good  night,"  said  Helen,  extending  her  hand  with 
a  sudden  light  in  her  face  which  transported  the  trailer. 
"We'll  meet  again  in  the  morning." 

He  took  her  hand  in  his  with  a  clutch  in  his  throat 
which  made  reply  difficult;  but  his  glance  expressed 
the  adoration  which  filled  his  heart. 

Kauffman  left  the  house,  walking  like  a  man  of  seventy. 
"My  bones  are  not  broken,  but  they  are  weary,"  he 
said,  dejectedly;  "I  fear  I  am  to  be  ill." 

"Oh,  you'll  be  all  right  in  the  morning,"  responded 
the  ranger  much  more  cheerily  than  he  really  felt. 

"Is  it  not  strange  that  any  reasonable  being  should 
accuse  my  daughter  and  me  of  that  monstrous  deed?" 

322 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

"  That  is  because  no  one  knows  you.  When  the  towns 
folk  come  to  know  you  and  her  they  will  think  differently. 
That  is  why  I  am  glad  the  coroner  is  to  hold  his  court 
here  in  the  town." 

"Well,  if  only  we  are  set  free —  We  shall  be  set  free, 
eh?" 

"Surely,  But  what  will  you  do  then?  Where  will 
you  go?" 

"I  hope  Helen  will  return  to  her  people."  He  sighed 
deeply.  "  It  was  all  very  foolish  to  come  out  here.  But 
it  was  natural.  She  was  stricken,  and  sensitive — so 
morbidly  sensitive — to  pity,  to  gossip.  Then,  too,  a 
romantic  notion  about  the  healing  power  of  the  moun 
tains  was  in  her  thought.  She  wished  to  go  where  no 
one  knew  her — where  she  could  live  the  simple  life  and 
regain  serenity  and  health.  She  said:  'I  will  not  go 
to  a  convent.  I  will  make  a  sanctuary  of  the  green 
hills.'  " 

"Something  very  sorrowful  must  have  happened — " 
said  Hanscom,  hesitatingly. 

The  old  man's  voice  was  very  grave  as  he  replied: 
"Not  sorrow,  but  treachery,"  he  said.  "A  treachery  so 
cruel,  a  betrayal  so  complete,  that  when  she  lost  her 
lover  and  her  most  intimate  girl  friend  (one  nearer  than 
a  sister)  she  lost  faith  in  all  men  and  all  women — almost 
in  God.  I  cannot  tell  you  more  of  her  story — "  He 
paused  a  moment,  then  added:  "She  believes  in  you — 
she  already  trusts  you — and  some  time,  perhaps,  she 
herself  will  tell  the  story  of  her  betrayal.  Till  then  you 
must  be  content  with  this — she  is  here  through  no  fault 
or  weakness  of  her  own." 

The  ranger,  pondering  deeply,  dared  not  put  into 
definite  form  the  precise  disloyalty  which  had  driven  a 
broken-hearted  girl  to  seek  the  shelter  of  the  hills,  but 

323 


THEY    OF    THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

he  understood  her  mood.  Hating  her  kind  and  believ 
ing  that  she  could  lose  herself  in  the  immensity  of  the 
landscape,  she  had  come  to  the  mountains  only  to  be 
cruelly  disillusioned.  The  Kitsongs  had  taught  her 
that  in  the  wilderness  a  woman  is  more  noticeable  than 
a  peak. 

Just  why  she  selected  the  Shellfish  for  her  retreat 
remained  to  be  explained,  and  to  this  question  Kauff- 
man  answered:  "We  came  here  because  a  friend  of 
ours,  a  poet,  who  had  once  camped  in  the  valley,  told 
us  of  the  wonderful  beauty  of  the  place.  It  is  beautiful 
— quite  as  beautiful  as  it  was  reported — but  a  beautiful 
landscape,  it  appears,  does  not  make  men  over  into  its 
image.  It  makes  them  seem  only  the  more  savage." 

Hanscom,  refraining  from  further  question,  helped 
the  old  man  up  the  stairway  to  his  bed  and  then  re 
turned  to  the  barroom,  in  which  several  of  the  regular 
boarders  were  loafing.  One  or  two  greeted  him  fa 
miliarly,  and  it  was  evident  that  they  all  knew  something 
of  the  capture  and  were  curious  to  learn  more.  His 
answers  to  their  questions  were  brief:  " You'll  learn  all 
about  it  to-morrow,"  he  said. 

Simpson,  the  proprietor  of  the  hotel,  jocosely  re 
marked:  "Well,  Hans,  as  near  as  I  can  figure  it  out, 
to-morrow  is  to  be  your  busy  day,  but  you'd  better 
lay  low  to-night.  The  Kitsongs  '11  get  ye,  if  ye  don't 
watch  out." 

"I'll  watch  out.     What  do  you  hear?" 

"The  whole  of  Shellfish  Valley  is  coming  in  to  see 
that  your  Dutchman  and  his  girl  gets  what's  coming  to 
them.  Abe  has  just  left  here,  looking  for  you.  He's 
turribly  wrought  up.  Says  you  had  no  right  to  arrest 
them  youngsters  and  he'll  make  you  sorry  you  did." 

One  of  the  clerks  dryly  remarked:  "They's  a  fierce 
324 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

interest  in  this  inquest.  Carmody  will  sure  have  to 
move  over  to  the  court-house.  Gee !  but  he  feels  his  feed ! 
For  one  day,  anyhow,  he's  bigger  than  the  entire  County 
Court." 

The  ranger  had  a  clearer  vision  of  his  own  as  well 
as  Helen's  situation  as  he  replied:  "Well,  I'm  going  over 
to  see  him.  When  it  comes  to  a  show-down  he's  on  my 
side,  for  he  needs  the  witnesses  I've  brought  him." 

"Abe  sure  has  got  it  in  for  you,  Hans.  Your  standing 
up  for  the  Dutchman  and  his  woman  was  bad  enough, 
but  for  you  to  arrest  Hank  without  a  warrant  has  set 
the  old  man  a-poppin'."  He  glanced  at  the  ranger's 
empty  belt.  "Better  take  your  gun  along." 

"No;  I'm  safer  without  it,"  he  replied.  "I  might 
fly  mad  and  hurt  somebody." 

The  loafers,  though  eager  to  witness  the  clash,  did  not 
rise  from  their  chairs  till  after  Hanscom  left.  No  one 
wished  to  betray  unseemly  haste. 

"There'll  be  something  doing  when  they  meet,"  said 
Simpson.  "Let's  follow  him  up  and  see  the  fun." 

As  he  walked  away  in  the  darkness  the  ranger  began 
to  fear — not  for  himself,  but  for  Helen.  The  unreason 
ing  ferocity  with  which  the  valley  still  pursued  her  was 
appalling.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  strongly 
desired  money.  He  felt  his  weakness,  his  ignorance. 
In  the  face  of  the  trial — which  should  mean  complete 
vindication  for  the  girl,  but  which  might  prove  to  be 
another  hideous  miscarriage  of  justice — he  was  of  no 
more  value  than  a  child.  Carmody  had  seemed  friend 
ly,  but  some  evil  influence  had  evidently  changed  his 
attitude. 

"What  can  I  do?"  the  ranger  asked  himself,  and  was 
only  able  to  answer,  "Nothing." 

From  a  sober-sided,  capable  boy,  content  to  do  a 
325 


THEY   OF    THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

thing  well,  he  had  developed  at  thirty  into  a  serious 
but  singularly  unambitious  man.  Loving  the  outdoor 
life  and  being  sufficiently  resourceful  to  live  alone  in  a 
wilderness  cabin  without  becoming  morbid,  he  had 
naturally  drifted  into  the  Forest  Service.  Without 
being  slothful,  he  had  been  foolishly  unaspiring,  and  he 
saw  that  now.  "I  must  bestir  myself,"  he  said,  sharply. 
"I  must  wake  up.  I  must  climb.  I  must  get  some 
where." 

He  took  close  grip  on  himself.  "Carmody  must 
squeeze  the  truth  out  of  these  youngsters  to-morrow,  and 
I  must  help  him  do  it.  If  Brinkley  can't  help,  I  must 
have  somebody  else."  And  yet  deep  in  his  heart  was 
the  belief  that  the  sight  of  Helen  as  she  took  the  witness- 
chair  would  do  more  to  clear  her  name  than  any  lawyer 
could  accomplish  by  craft  or  passionate  speech. 

At  the  door  of  Carmody's  office  he  came  upon  Kitsong 
and  a  group  of  his  followers,  waiting  for  him.  Abe  was 
in  a  most  dangerous  mood,  and  his  hearers,  also  in  liquor, 
were  listening  with  approval  to  the  description  of  what 
he  intended  to  do  to  the  ranger. 

"You  can't  arrest  a  man  without  a  warrant,"  he  was 
repeating.  "Hanscom's  no  sheriff — he's  only  a  dirty 
deputy  game-warden.  I'll  make  him  wish  he  was  a  goat 
before  I  get  through  with  him." 

Although  to  advance  meant  war,  Hanscom  had  no 
thought  of  retreating.  He  kept  his  way,  and  as  the  band 
of  light  which  streamed  from  the  saloon  window  fell  on  him 
one  of  the  watchers  called  out,  "There's  the  ranger  now." 

Kitsong  turned,  and  with  an  oath  of  savage  joy  ad 
vanced  upon  the  forester.  "You're  the  man  I  have 
been  waiting  for,"  he  began,  with  a  menacing  snarl. 

"Well,"  Hanscom  retorted,  "here  I  am.  What  can 
I  do  for  you?" 

326 


THE   FOREST    RANGER 

His  quiet  tone  instantly  infuriated  the  ruffian.  Shak 
ing  his  fist  close  to  the  ranger's  nose,  he  shouted:  'Til 
do  for  you,  you  loafer!  What  right  had  you  to  arrest 
them  kids  ?  What  right  had  you  to  help  them  witnesses 
to  the  train?  You're  off  your  beat,  and  you'd  better 
climb  right  back  again." 

Righteous  wrath  flamed  hot  in  the  ranger's  breast. 
"You  keep  your  fist  out  of  my  face  or  I'll  smash  your 
jaw,"  he  answered,  and  his  voice  was  husky  with  passion. 
"Get  out  of  my  way!"  he  added,  as  Kitsong  shifted 
ground,  deliberately  blocking  his  path. 

"You  can't  bluff  me!"  roared  the  older  man.  "I'm 
going  to  have  you  jugged  for  false  arrest.  You'll  find 
you  can't  go  round  taking  people  to  jail  at  your  own 
sweet  will." 

The  battle  song  in  the  old  man's  voice  aroused  the 
street.  His  sympathizers  pressed  close.  All  their  loiig- 
felt,  half -hidden  hatred  of  the  ranger  as  a  Federal  officer 
flamed  from  their  eyes,  and  Hanscom  regretted  the  ab 
sence  of  his  revolver. 

Though  lean  and  awkward,  he  was  one  of  those  de 
ceptive  men  whose  muscles  are  folded  in  broad,  firm  flakes 
like  steel  springs.  A  sense  of  danger  thrilled  his  blood, 
but  he  did  not  show  it — he  could  not  afford  to  show  it. 
Therefore  he  merely  backed  up  against  the  wall  of  the 
building  and  with  clenched  hands  awaited  their  onset. 

Something  in  his  silence  and  self-control  daunted  his 
furious  opponents.  They  hesitated. 

"If  you  weren't  a  government  officer,"  blustered  Abe, 
"I'd  waller  ye —  But  I'll  get  ye!  I'll  put  ye  where  that 
Dutchman  and  his — " 

Hanscom's  fist  crashing  like  a  hammer  against  the 
rancher's  jaw  closed  his  teeth  on  the  vile  epithet  which 
filled  his  mouth,  and  even  as  he  reeled,  stunned  by  this 

22  327 


THEY   OF    THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

blow,  the  ranger's  left  arm  flashed  in  another  savage 
swing,  and  Abe,  stunned  by  the  swift  attack,  would 
have  fallen  into  the  gutter  had  not  one  of  his  gang  caught 
and  supported  him. 

"Kill  him!  Kill  the  dog!"  shouted  one  of  the  others, 
and  in  his  voice  was  the  note  of  the  murderer. 

Eli  Kitsong  whipped  out  his  revolver,  but  the  hand 
of  a  friendly  bystander  clutched  the  weapon.  "None 
of  that;  the  man  is  unarmed,"  he  said. 

At  this  moment  the  door  of  the  saloon  opened  and 
five  or  six  men  came  rushing,  eager  to  see,  quick  to  share 
in  a  fight.  Believing  them  to  be  enemies,  Hanscom 
with  instant  rush  struck  the  first  man  a  heavy  blow, 
caught  and  wrenched  his  weapon  from  his  fist,  and  so, 
armed  and  desperate,  faced  the  circle  of  inflamed  and 
excited  men. 

"Hands  up  now!"  he  called. 

"Don't  shoot,  Hans!"  shouted  the  man  who  had  been 
disarmed.  ' '  We're  all  friends. ' ' 

In  the  tense  silence  which  followed,  the  sheriff,  at 
tracted  by  the  noise,  emerged  from  the  coroner's  door 
with  a  shout  and  hurled  himself  like  an  enormous  ram 
into  the  crowd.  Pushing  men  this  way  and  that,  he 
reached  the  empty  space  before  the  ranger's  feet. 

"What's  the  meaning  of  all  this?"  he  demanded,  with 
panting  intensity.  "Put  up  them  guns."  The  crowd 
obeyed.  "Now,  what's  it  all  about?"  he  said,  ad 
dressing  Abe. 

"He  jumped  me,"  complained  Kitsong.  " I  want  him 
arrested  for  that  and  for  taking  Henry  without  a  war 
rant." 

"Where's  your  warrant?"   asked  Throop. 

Abe  was  confused.  "I  haven't  any  yet,  but  I'll  get 
one." 

328 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

Throop  addressed  the  crowd,  which  was  swiftly  aug 
menting.  "Clear  out  of  this,  now!  Vamose,  every  man 
of  you,  or  I'll  run  you  all  in.  Clear  out,  I  say!"  The 
throng  began  to  move  away,  for  the  gestures  with  which 
he  indicated  his  meaning  were  made  sinisterly  significant 
by  the  weapon  which  he  swung.  The  leaders  fell  back 
and  began  to  move  away.  Throop  said  to  the  ranger: 
"Hans,  you  come  with  me.  The  coroner  wants  you." 

Hanscom  returned  the  revolver  to  the  man  from 
whom  he  had  snatched  it.  "I'm  much  obliged,  Pete," 
he  said,  with  a  note  of  humor.  "Hope  I  didn't  do  any 
damage.  I  didn't  have  time  to  see  who  was  coming. 
I  wouldn't  have  been  so  rough  if  I'd  known  it  was  you." 

The  other  fellow  grinned.  "  Teared  to  me  like  you'd 
made  a  mistake,  but  I  couldn't  blame  you.  Feller  has 
to  act  quick  in  a  case  like  that." 

"Bring  your  prisoner  here,"  called  Carmody  from  his 
open  door.  "I'll  take  care  of  him." 

"I'll  get  you  yet,"  called  Kitsong,  venomously.  "I'll 
get  you  to-morrow!" 

"Go  along  out  o'  here!"  repeated  the  sheriff,  hustling 
him  off  the  walk.  "You're  drunk  and  disturbing  the 
peace.  Go  home  and  go  to  bed." 

With  a  sense  of  having  made  a  bad  matter  worse  the 
ranger  followed  the  coroner  into  his  office  and  closed 
the  door. 

VI 

Dr.  Carmody,  who  had  held  the  office  of  coroner 
less  than  a  year,  had  a  keen  sense  of  the  importance 
which  this  his  first  murder  case  had  given  him.  His 
procedure  at  the  cabin  had  been  easy  and  rather  casual, 
it  is  true,  but  contact  with  the  townfolk  and  a  careful 
perusal  of  the  State  Code  had  given  him  a  decided  tone 

329 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

of  authority  and  an  air  of  judicial  severity  which  sur 
prised  and  somewhat  irritated  Hanscom,  fresh  from  his 
encounter  with  Kitsong. 

"What  was  the  cause  of  that  row  out  there?"  de 
manded  the  doctor,  resuming  his  seat  behind  his  desk 
with  the  expression  of  a  police  magistrate. 

The  ranger,  still  hot  with  anger,  looked  at  his  ques 
tioner  with  resentful  eyes.  "Kitsong  and  his  gang  were 
laying  for  me  and  I  stood  'em  off — that's  all.  Old  Abe 
was  out  for  trouble,  and  he  got  it.  I  punched  his  jaw 
and  the  other  outlaws  started  in  to  do  me  up." 

Carmody  softened  a  bit.  "Well,  you're  in  for  it. 
He'll  probably  have  you  arrested  and  charged  with 
assault  and  battery." 

"If  he  can,"  interposed  Throop.  "He'll  find  some 
trouble  gettin'  a  warrant  issued  in  this  town  to-night." 

Carmody  continued  his  accusing  interrogation:  "What 
"about  this  report  of  your  helping  the  Kauffmans  to  leave 
the  country?  Is  that  true?" 

Hanscom's  tone  was  still  defiant  as  he  replied:  "It 
is,  but  I  wonder  if  you  know  that  they  were  being 
chased  out  of  the  country  at  the  time?" 

"Chased  out?" 

"Yes.  After  receiving  several  warnings,  they  got 
one  that  scared  them,  and  so  they  hitched  up  and  started 
over  early  in  the  morning  to  find  me.  On  the  way  they 
were  waylaid  by  an  armed  squad  and  chased  for  several 
miles.  I  heard  the  shooting,  and  by  riding  hard  across 
the  Black  Hogback  intercepted  them  and  scared  the 
outlaws  off,  but  the  Kauffmans  were  in  bad  shape.  One 
of  the  horses  had  been  killed  and  Kauffman  himself 
was  lying  on  the  ground.  He'd  been  thrown  from  the 
wagon  and  was  badly  bruised.  The  girl  was  unhurt, 
but  naturally  she  wanted  to  get  out  of  the  country  at 

339 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

once.  She  wasn't  scared;  she  was  plain  disgusted.  She 
wanted  me  to  take  them  to  the  train,  and  I  did.  Any 
decent  citizen  would  have  done  the  same.  I  didn't 
know  you  wanted  them  again,  and  if  I  had  I  wouldn't 
have  tried  to  hold  them  at  the  time,  for  I  was  pretty 
well  wrought  up  myself." 

Carmody  was  less  belligerent  as  he  said:  "What 
about  arresting  these  young  people?  How  did  that 
happen?" 

"Well,  on  the  way  back  from  the  station  I  got  to 
thinking  about  those  raiders,  and  it  struck  me  that  it 
would  be  easy  for  them  to  ride  down  to  the  Kauffman 
cabin  and  do  some  damage,  and  that  I'd  better  go  over 
and  see  that  everything  was  safe.  It  was  late  when  I 
got  home,  but  I  saddled  up  and  drove  across.  Good 
thing  I  did,  for  I  found  the  house  all  lit  up,  and  Henry 
Kitsong,  young  Busby,  and  old  Pete  Cuneo's  girl  were 
in  full  possession  of  the  place  and  having  a  gay  time. 
I  arrested  the  boys  for  breaking  into  the  house  on  the 
theory  that  they  were  both  in  that  raid.  Furthermore, 
I'm  sure  they  know  something  about  Watson's  death. 
That's  what  Abe  and  Eli  were  fighting  me  about  to 
night — they're  afraid  Henry  was  mixed  up  in  it.  He 
and  Watson  didn't  get  on  well." 

The  vigor  and  candor  of  the  ranger's  defense  profound 
ly  affected  Carmody.  "You  may  be  right,"  he  said, 
thoughtfully.  "Anyhow,  I'll  bring  them  all  before  the 
jury  to-morrow.  Of  course,  I  can't  enter  into  that  raid 
or  the  housebreaking — that's  out  of  my  jurisdication — 
but  if  you  think  this  Cuneo  girl  knows  something — " 

"I  am  certain  she  does.  She  made  those  tracks  in 
the  flour." 

The  coroner  turned  sharply.  "What  makes  you 
think  so?" 

331 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

Hanscom  then  told  him  of  the  comparison  he  had 
made  of  her  shoes  with  the  drawings  in  his  note-book, 
and  the  coroner  listened  intently. 

"That's  mighty  important,"  he  said,  at  last.  "You 
did  right  in  bringing  her  down.  I'll  defend  your 
action." 

Hanscom  persisted:  "You  must  make  it  clear  to  that 
jury  that  Helen  McLaren  never  entered  Watson's  gate 
in  her  life." 

Carmody  was  at  heart  convinced.  "Don't  worry," 
said  he.  "I'll  give  you  a  chance  to  get  all  that  evidence 
before  the  jury,  and  for  fear  Abe  may  try  to  arrest  you 
and  keep  you  away  from  the  session,  I  reckon  I'd  better 
send  you  home  in  charge  of  Throop."  He  smiled,  and 
the  sheriff  smiled,  but  it  was  not  so  funny  to  the  ranger. 

"Never  mind  about  me,"  he  said.  "I  can  take  care 
of  myself.  Kitsong  is  only  bluffing." 

"All  the  same,  you'd  better  go  home  with  Throop," 
persisted  the  coroner.  "You're  needed  at  the  hearing 
to-morrow,  and  Miss  McLaren  will  want  you  all  in  one 
piece,"  he  said. 

Hanscom  considered  a  moment.  "All  right.  I'm  in 
your  hands  till  to-morrow.  Good  night." 

"  Good  night,"  replied  Carmody.  "  Take  good  care 
of  him,"  he  added  to  the  sheriff  as  he  rose. 

"He  won't  get  away,"  replied  Throop.  As  he  stepped 
into  the  street  he  perceived  a  small  group  of  Kit  song's 
sympathizers  still  hanging  about  the  door  of  the  saloon. 
"What  are  you  hanging  around  here  for?"  he  demanded. 

"Waiting  for  Abe.  He's  gone  after  a  warrant  and 
the  city  marshal,"  one  of  them  explained. 

"You're  wasting  time  and  so  is  Abe.  You  tell  him 
that  the  coroner  has  put  Hanscom  in  my  custody  and 
that  I  won't  stand  for  any  interference  from  anybody — 

332 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

not  even  the  county  judge — so  you  fellers  better  clear 
off  home." 

The  back  streets  were  silent,  and  as  they  walked  along 
Throop  said:  "I'm  going  to  lose  you  at  the  door  of  the 
hotel,  but  you'd  better  turn  up  at  my  office  early  to 
morrow." 

Hans  com  said  "Good  night"  and  went  to  his  bed 
with  a  sense  of  physical  relaxation  which  should  have 
brought  slumber  at  once,  but  it  didn't.  On  the  con 
trary,  he  lay  awake  till  long  after  midnight,  reliving  the 
exciting  events  of  the  day,  and  the  hour  upon  which 
he  spent  most  thought  was  that  in  Mrs.  Throop 's 
front  room  when  he  sat  opposite  Helen  and  discussed 
her  future  and  his  own. 

When  he  awoke  it  was  broad  day,  and  as  Kauff- 
man,  who  occupied  a  bed  in  the  same  chamber,  was  still 
soundly  slumbering,  the  ranger  dressed  as  quietly  as 
possible  and  went  out  into  the  street  to  take  account 
of  a  dawn  which  was  ushering  in  the  most  important 
morning  of  his  life — a  day  in  which  his  own  fate  as  well 
as  that  of  Helen  McLaren  must  be  decided. 

The  air  was  clear  and  stinging  and  the  mountain 
wall,  lit  by  the  direct  rays  of  the  rising  sun,  appeared 
depressingly  bald  and  prosaic,  like  his  own  past  life. 
The  foot-hills,  in  whose  minute  wrinkle  the  drama  of 
which  he  was  a  vital  part  had  taken  place,  resembled  a 
crumpled  carpet  of  dull  gold  and  olive-green,  and  for  the 
first  time  in  his  experience  L.  J.  Hanscom,  wilderness 
trailer,  acknowledged  a  definite  dissatisfaction  with  his 
splendid  solitude. 

"What  does  my  life  amount  to?"  he  bitterly  inquired. 
"What  am  I  headed  for?  Where  is  my  final  camping- 
place?  I  can't  go  on  as  I'm  going.  If  I  were  sure  of 
some  time  getting  a  supervisor's  job,  or  even  an  assistant 

333 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

supervisor's  position,  the  outlook  would  not  be  so  hope 
less.  But  to  get  even  that  far  means  years  of  work, 
years  of  riding."  And  then,  as  he  thought  of  his  lonely 
cabin,  so  unsuited  to  a  woman's  life,  he  said:  ''No,  I 
must  quit  the  service;  that's  sure." 

Returning  to  the  hotel,  he  wrote  out  his  resignation 
with  resolute  hand  and  dropped  it  into  the  mail-box. 
" There,"  he  told  himself,  "now  you're  just  naturally 
obliged  to  hustle  for  a  new  job,"  and,  strange  to  say,  a 
feeling  of  elation  followed  this  decisive  action. 

Kauffman  was  afoot  and  dressing  with  slow  and  pain 
ful  movements  as.Hanscom  re-entered,  saying,  cheerily, 
"Well,  uncle,  how  do  you  feel  by  now?" 

With  a  wan  smile  the  old  man  answered:  "Much 
bruised  and  very  painful,  but  I  am  not  concerned  about 
myself.  I  am  only  afraid  for  you.  I  hope  you  will 
not  come  to  harm  by  reason  of  your  generous  aid 
to  us." 

"Don't  you  fret  about  me,"  responded  Hanscom, 
sturdily.  "I'm  hard  to  kill;  and  don't  make  the  mis 
take  of  thinking  that  the  whole  country  is  down  on 
you,  for  it  isn't.  Abe  and  his  gang  are  not  much  better 
than  outlaws  in  the  eyes  of  the  people  down  here  in  the 
valley,  and  as  soon  as  the  town  understands  the  case 
the  citizens  will  all  be  with  you — and — Helen."  He 
hesitated  a  little  before  speaking  her  name,  and  the 
sound  of  the  word  gave  him  a  little  pang  of  delight — 
brought  her  nearer,  someway.  "But  let's  go  down  to 
breakfast;  you  must  be  hungry." 

The  old  man  did  not  reply  as  cheerily  as  the  ranger 
expected  him  to  do.  On  the  contrary,  he  answered, 
sadly:  "No,  I  do  not  feel  like  eating,  but  I  will  go  down 
with  you.  Perhaps  I  shall  feel  better  for  it." 

The  dining-room  was  filled  with  boarders,  and  all 
334 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

betrayed  the  keenest  interest  in  Kauffman.  It  was 
evident  also  that  the  ranger's  punishment  of  Kitsong 
was  widely  known,  for  several  spoke  of  it,  and  Simpson 
warningly  said: 

"Abe  intends  to  have  your  hide.  He's  going  to  slap 
a  warrant  on  you  as  soon  as  you're  out  of  Carmody's 
hands  and  have  you  sent  down  the  line  for  assault  with 
intent  to  kill." 

All  this  talk  increased  Kauffman's  uneasiness,  and 
on  the  way  over  to  the  jail  he  again  apologized  for  the 
trouble  they  had  brought  upon  him. 

"Don't  say  a  word  of  last  night's  row  to  Helen," 
warned  Haiiscom.  "Throop  promised  to  keep  it  from 
her,  and  don't  consider  Kitsong;  he  can't  touch  me 
till  after  Carmody  is  through  with  me." 

The  deputy  who  let  them  in  said  that  the  sheriff  was 
at  breakfast — a  fact  which  was  made  evident  by  the 
savory  smell  of  sausages  which  pervaded  the  entire  hall, 
and  a  moment  later,  Throop,  hearing  their  voices,  came 
to  the  dining-room  door,  napkin  in  hand.  "Come  in," 
he  called.  "Come  in  an  have  a  hot  cake." 

"Thank  you,  we've  had  our  breakfast,"  Hanscom 
replied. 

"Oh,  well,  you  can  stand  a  cup  of  coffee,  anyway, 
and  Miss  Helen  wants  to  see  you." 

The  wish  to  see  Helen  brought  instant  change  to 
the  ranger's  plan.  Putting  down  his  hat,  he  followed 
Kauffman  into  the  pleasant  sunlit  breakfast-room  with 
a  swiftly  pounding  heart. 

Helen,  smiling  cheerily,  rose  to  meet  her  stepfather 
with  a  lovely  air  of  concern.  "Dear  old  daddy,  how  do 
you  feel  this  morning?" 

"Very  well  indeed,"  he  bravely  falsified. 

She  turned  to  Hanscom  with  outstretched  hand. 
335 


THEY   OF    THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

"Isn't  it  glorious  this  morning!"  she  exclaimed,  rather 
than  asked. 

The  sheriff,  like  the  good  boomer  that  he  was,  in 
terrupted  the  ranger's  reply.  "Oh,  we  have  plenty  of 
mornings  like  this." 

She  protested.  "Please  don't  say  that!  I  want  to 
consider  this  morning  especially  fine.  I  want  it  to 
bring  us  all  good  luck." 

Evidently  Throop  had  kept  his  promise  to  Hanscom, 
for  Helen  said  nothing  of  the  battle  of  the  night  be 
fore,  and  with  sudden  flare  of  confidence  the  ranger 
said: 

"You're  right.  This  is  a  wonderful  morning,  and  I 
believe  this  trial  is  coming  out  right,  but  just  to  be  pre 
pared  for  anything  that  comes,  I  think  I'd  better  get 
a  lawyer  to  represent  you.  I  don't  feel  able  properly 
•to  defend  your  interests." 

"But  you  must  be  there,"  she  quickly  answered. 
"You  are  the  one  sure  friend  in  all  this  land." 

His  sensitive  face  flushed  with  pleasure,  for  beneath 
the  frank  expression  of  her  friendship  he  perceived  a 
deeper  note  than  she  had  hitherto  expressed,  and  yet 
he  was  less  sure  of  her  than  ever,  for  in  ways  not  easily 
defined  by  one  as  simple  as  he  she  had  contrived  to 
accent  overnight  the  alien  urban  character  of  her  train 
ing.  She  no  longer  even  remotely  suggested  the  hermit 
he  had  once  supposed  her  to  be.  A  gown  of  graceful 
lines,  a  different  way  of  dressing  her  hair,  had  effected 
an  almost  miraculous  change  in  her  appearance.  She 
became  from  moment  to  moment  less  of  the  mountaineer 
and  more  of  the  city  dweller,  and,  realizing  this,  the 
trailer's  admiration  was  tinged  with  something  very 
like  despair.  He  was  not  a  dullard;  he  divined  that 
these  outer  signs  of  change  implied  corresponding  mental 

336 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

reversals.     Her  attitude  toward  the  mountains,   tow 
ard  life,  had  altered. 

"She  is  turning  away  from  my  world  back  to  the 
world  from  which  she  came,"  was  his  vaguely  defined 
conclusion. 

Meanwhile  the  sheriff  was  saying:  "Well,  now,  Car- 
mody  opens  court  in  the  town-hall  at  ten  this  morning, 
and,  Hans,  you  are  to  be  on  hand  early.  I'll  bring  Miss 
McLaren  up  in  the  car  about  a  quarter  to  ten  and  have 
her  in  the  doctor's  office,  which  is  only  a  few  doors 
away." 

"How  is  the  Cuneo  girl?"  asked  Hanscom. 

"She  seems  rested  and  fairly  chipper,  but  I  can  see 
she's  going  to  be  a  bad  witness." 

Helen's  face  clouded.  "Poor  girl!  I  feel  sorry  for 
her." 

Mrs.  Throop  was  less  sympathetic.  "She  certainly 
has  made  a  mess  of  it.  I  can't  make  out  which  of 
these  raiders  she  ran  away  with." 

"She's  going  to  defend  them  both,"  said  Throop; 
"and  she's  going  to  deny  everything.  I'd  like  to  work 
the  third  degree  on  her.  I'd  bet  I'd  find  out  what  she 
was  doing  down  at  Watson's." 

Helen,  who  knew  the  value  which  her  defenders 
placed  on  the  correspondence  between  Rita's  shoes  and 
the  footprint,  was  very  grave  as  she  said:  "I  hope  she 
had  no  part  in  the  murder.  Mrs.  Throop  says  she  is 
hardly  more  than  a  child." 

"Well,"  warned  the  sheriff,  "we're  not  the  court. 
It's  up  to  Carmody  and  his  jury." 

They  said  no  more  about  the  trial,  and  Hanscom 
soon  left  the  room  with  intent  to  find  a  lawyer  who 
would  be  willing  for  a  small  fee  to  represent  the  Kauff- 
mans — a  quest  in  which  he  was  unsuccessful. 

337 


THEY   OF   THE   HIGH   TRAILS 

The  sheriff  followed  him  out.  "Reckon  I'd  better 
take  you  up  to  Carmody's  office  in  my  car,"  he  said. 
"Kitsong  may  succeed  in  clapping  a  warrant  on  your 
head." 

VII 

The  valley  had  wakened  early  in  expectation  of  an 
exciting  day.  The  news  of  the  capture  of  Busby  and 
his  companions  had  been  telephoned  from  house  to 
house  and  from  ranch  to  ranch,  and  the  streets  were 
already  filled  with  farmers  and  their  families,  adorned 
as  for  a  holiday.  The  entire  population  of  Shellfish 
Canon  had  assembled,  voicing  high  indignation  at  the 
ranger's  interference.  Led  by  Abe  and  Eli,  who  busily 
proclaimed  that  the  arrest  of  Henry  and  his  companions 
was  merely  a  trick  to  divert  suspicion  from  the  Kauff- 
man  woman,  they  advanced  upon  the  coroner. 

Abe  had  failed  of  getting  a  warrant  for  the  ranger, 
but  boasted  that  he  had  the  promise  of  one  as  soon  as 
the  inquest  should  be  ended.  "Furthermore,"  he  said, 
"old  Louis  Cuneo  is  on  his  way  over  the  range,  and  I'll 
bet  something  will  start  the  minute  he  gets  in." 

Carmody,  who  was  disposed  to  make  as  much  of  his 
position  as  the  statutes  permitted,  had  called  the  hearing 
in  a  public  hall  which  stood  a  few  doors  south  of  his 
office,  and  at  ten  o'clock  the  aisles  were  so  jammed  with 
expectant  auditors  that  Throop  was  forced  to  bring  his 
witnesses  in  at  the  back  door.  Nothing  like  this  trial 
in  the  way  of  free  entertainment  had  been  offered  since 
the  day  Jim  Nolan  was  lynched  from  the  railway  bridge. 

Hanscom  was  greatly  cheered  by  the  presence  of  his 
chief,  Supervisor  Rawlins,  who  came  into  the  coroner's 
office  about  a  quarter  to  ten.  He  had  driven  over  from 
Cambria  in  anxious  haste,  greatly  puzzled  by  the  rumors 

338 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

which  had  reached  him.  He  was  a  keen  young  Mary- 
lander,  a  college  graduate,  with  considerable  experience 
in  the  mountain  West.  He  liked  Hanscom  and  trusted 
him,  and  when  the  main  points  of  the  story  were  clear 
in  his 'mind  he  said: 

"You  did  perfectly  right,  Hans,  and  I'll  back  you  in 
it.  I'm  something  of  a  dabster  at  law  myself,  and  I'll 
see  that  Kitsong  don't  railroad  you  into  jail.  What 
worries  me  is  the  general  opposition  now  being  mani 
fested.  With  the  whole  Shellfish  Valley  on  edge,  your 
work  will  be  hampered.  It  will  make  your  position 
unpleasant  for  a  while  at  least." 

Hanscom  uneasily  shifted  his  glance.  "That  doesn't 
matter.  I'm  going  to  quit  the  work,  anyhow." 

"Oh  no,  you're  not!" 

"Yes,  I  am.  I  wrote  out  my  resignation  this  morn 
ing." 

Rawlins  was  sadly  disturbed.  "I  hate  to  have  you 
let  this  gang  drive  you  out." 

"It  isn't  that,"  replied  Hanscom,  somberly.  "The 
plain  truth  is,  Jack,  I've  lost  interest  in  the  work.  If 
Miss  McLaren  is  cleared — and  she  will  be — she'll  go  East, 
and  I  don't  see  myself  going  back  alone  into  the  hills." 

The  supervisor  studied  him  in  silence  for  a  moment, 
and  his  voice  was  gravely  sympathetic  as  he  said:  "I 
see !  This  girl  has  made  your  cabin  seem  a  long  way  from 
town." 

"She's  done  more  than  that,  Jack.  She's  waked  me 
up.  She's  shown  me  that  I  can't  afford  to  ride  trail  and 
camp  and  cook  and  fight  fire  any  more.  I've  got  to  get 
out  into  the  world  and  rustle  a  home  that  a  girl  like  her 
can  be  happy  in.  I'm  started  at  last.  I  want  to  do 
something.  I'm  as  ambitious  as  a  ward  politician!" 

The  supervisor  smiled.  "I  get  you!  I'm  sorry  to 
339 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

lose  you,  but  I  guess  you  are  right.  If  you're  bent  on 
winning  a  woman,  you're  just  about  obliged  to  jump 
out  and  try  something  else.  But  don't  quit  until  I  have 
time  to  put  a  man  in  your  place." 

Hanscom  promised  this,  although  at  the  moment  he 
had  a  misgiving  that  the  promise  might  prove  a  burden, 
and  together  they  walked  over  to  the  hall. 

The  crowded  room  was  very  quiet  as  the  ranger  and 
his  chief  entered  and  took  seats  near  the  platform  on 
which  the  coroner  and  his  jury  were  already  seated.  It 
was  evident,  even 'at  a  glance,  that  the  audience  was 
very  far  from  being  dominated,  or  even  colored,  by  the 
Shellfish  crowd,  and  yet,  as  none  of  the  spectators,  men 
or  women,  really  knew  the  Kauffmans,  they  could  not 
be  called  friendly.  They  were  merely  curious. 

Hanscom  was  somewhat  relieved  to  find  that  the 
jury  was  not  precisely  the  same  as  it  had  been  on  the 
hillside.  An  older  and  better  man  had  replaced  Steve 
Billop,  a  strong  partisan  of  Kitsong's;  but  to  counter 
balance  this  a  discouraging  feature  developed  in  the 
presence  of  William  Raines,  a  dark,  oily,  whisky-soaked 
man  of  sixty,  a  lawyer  whose  small  practice  lay  among 
the  mountaineers  of  Watson's  type. 

"He's  here  as  Kitsong's  attorney,"  whispered  the 
ranger,  who  regretted  that  he  had  not  made  greater 
efforts  to  secure  legal  aid.  However,  the  presence  of 
his  chief,  a  man  of  education  and  experience,  reassured 
him  in  some  degree. 

Carmody,  rejoicing  in  his  legal  supremacy,  and 
moved  by  love  of  drama,  opened  proceedings  with  all 
the  dignity  and  authority  of  a  judge,  explaining  in 
sonorous  terms  that  this  was  an  adjourned  session  of  an 
inquest  upon  the  death  of  one  Edward  Watson,  a  rancher 
on  the  Shellfish. 

340 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

"New  witnesses  have  been  secured  and  new  evidence 
has  developed,"  he  said  in  closing,  "and  Mr.  L.  J. 
Hanscom,  the  forest  ranger,  who  has  important  testi 
mony  to  give,  will  first  take  the  stand." 

Though  greatly  embarrassed  by  the  eyes  of  the  vast 
audience  and  somewhat  intimidated  by  the  judicial 
tone  of  Carmody's  voice,  Hanscom  went  forward  and 
told  his  story  almost  without  interruption,  and  at  the 
end  explained  his  own  action. 

"Of  course,  I  didn't  intend  to  help  anybody  sidestep 
justice  when  I  took  the  Kauffmans  to  the  station,  be 
cause  I  heard  the  coroner  say  he  had  excused  them." 

"What  about  those  raiders?"  asked  one  of  the  jurors. 
"Did  you  recognize  the  man  who  shot  Kauffman's 
horse?" 

Carmody  interrupted:  "We  can't  go  into  that. 
That  has  no  connection  with  the  question  which  we  are 
to  settle,  which  is,  Who  killed  Watson?" 

"Seems  to  me  there  is  a  connection,"  remarked  Raw- 
lins.  "If  those  raiders  were  the  same  people  Hanscom 
arrested  in  the  cabin,  wouldn't  it  prove  something  as 
to  their  character?" 

"Sure  thing!"  answered  another  of  the  jurors. 

"A  man  who  would  shoot  a  horse  like  that  might 
shoot  a  man,  'pears  to  me,"  said  a  third. 

"All  right,"  said  Carmody.  "Mr.  Hanscom,  you 
may  answer.  Did  you  recognize  the  man  who  fired 
that  shot?" 

"No,  he  was  too  far  away;  but  the  horse  he  rode  was 
a  sorrel — the  same  animal  which  the  Cuneo  girl  rode." 

Raines  interrupted:    "Will  you  swear  to  that?" 

"No,  I  won't  swear  to  it,  but  I  think — " 

Raines  was  savage.  "Mr.  Coroner,  we  don't  want 
what  the  witness  thinks — we  want  what  he  knows." 

34i 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

"Tell  us  what  you  know,"  commanded  Carmody. 

"I  know  this,"  retorted  Hanscom.  "The  man  who 
fired  that  shot  rode  a  sorrel  blaze-faced  pony  and  was  a 
crack  gunman.  To  drop  a  running  horse  at  that  dis 
tance  is  pretty  tolerable  shooting,  and  it  ought  to  be  easy 
to  prove  who  the  gunner  was.  I've  heard  say  Henry 
Kitsong— " 

"I  object!"  shouted  Raines,  and  Carmody  sustained 
the  objection. 

"Passing  now  to  your  capture  of  the  housebreakers," 
said  he,  "tell  the  jury  how  you  came  to  arrest  the  girl." 

"Well,  as  I  entered  the  cabin  the  girl  Rita  was  sit 
ting  with  her  feet  on  a  stool,  and  the  size  and  shape  of 
her  shoe  soles  appeared  to  me  about  the  size  and  shape 
of  the  tracks  made  in  the  flour,  and  I  had  just  started 
to  take  one  of  her  shoes  in  order  to  compare  it  with  the 
drawings  I  carried  in  my  pocket-book  when  Busby 
jumped  me.  I  had  to  wear  him  out  before  I  could  go 
on;  but  finally  I  made  the  comparison  and  found  that 
the  soles  of  her  shoes  fitted  the  tracks  exactly.  Then 
I  decided  to  bring  her  down,  too." 

A  stir  of  excited  interest  passed  over  the  hall,  but 
Raines  checked  it  by  asking:  "Did  you  compare  the 
shoes  with  the  actual  tracks  on  the  porch  floor?" 

"No,  only  with  the  drawings  I  had  made  in  my 
note-book." 

Raines  waved  his  hand  contemptuously.  "That 
proves  nothing.  We  don't  know  anything  about  those 
drawings." 

"I  do,"  retorted  Carmody,  "and  so  does  the  jury; 
but  we  can  take  that  matter  up  later.  You  can  step 
down,  Mr.  Hanscom,  and  we'll  hear  James  B.  Durgin." 

Durgin,  a  bent,  gray-bearded  old  rancher,  took  the 
stand  and  swore  that  he  had  witnessed  a  hot  wrangle 

342 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

between  Kauffman  and  Watson,  and  that  he  had  heard 
the  Dutchman  say,  "I'll  get  you  for  this!" 

Hanscom,  realizing  that  Durgin  was  Kitsong's  chief 
new  witness,  was  quick  to  challenge  his  testimony,  and 
finally  forced  him  to  admit  that  Watson  had  also  threat 
ened  Kauffman,  so  that  the  total  effect  of  his  testimony 
was  rather  more  helpful  than  harmful. 

"Is  it  not  a  matter  of  common  report,  Mr.  Coroner," 
demanded  the  ranger,  "that  Watson  has  had  many 
such  quarrels?  I  am  told  that  he  had  at  least  one  fierce 
row  with  Busby — " 

"Well  come  to  that,"  interjected  Carmody,  as  Durgin 
left  the  chair.  "Have  you  Rita's  shoes,  Mr.  Sheriff?" 
Throop  handed  up  a  pair  of  women's  shoes,  and  Car 
mody  continued:  "You  swear  these  are  the  shoes  worn 
by  Margarita  Cuneo  when  you  took  charge  of  her?" 

"I  do." 

"Mr.  Hanscom,  will  you  examine  these  shoes  and  say 
whether  they  are  the  ones  worn  by  Rita  Cuneo  when  you 
arrested  her?" 

Hanscom  took  them.  "I  think  they  are  the  same, 
but  I  cannot  tell  positively  without  comparing  them 
with  my  drawings." 

The  jury,  deeply  impressed  by  this  new  and  unexpected 
evidence,  minutely  examined  the  shoe  soles  and  com 
pared  them  with  the  drawings  while  the  audience  waited 
in  tense  expectancy. 

"They  sure  fit,"  said  the  spokesman  of  the  jury. 

Raines  objected.  "Even  if  they  do  seem  to  fit,  that 
is  not  conclusive.  We  don't  know  when  the  tracks  were 
made.  They  may  have  been  made  after  the  murder  or 
before." 

"Call  Rita  Cuneo,"  said  Carmody  to  the  sheriff. 

The  girl  came  to  the  stand,  looking  so  scared,  so  pale, 
23  343 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

and  so  small  that  some  of  the  women,  without  realizing 
the  importance  of  her  testimony,  clicked  their  tongues 
in  pity.  ''Dear,  dear!  How  young  she  is!"  they  ex 
claimed. 

Carmody,  by  means  of  a  few  rapid  questions  gently 
expressed,  drew  out  her  name,  her  age,  and  some  part 
of  her  family  history,  and  then,  with  sudden  change  of 
manner,  bluntly  asked: 

"How  did  you  happen  to  be  in  that  cabin  with  those 
two  men?" 

Pitifully  at  a  loss,  she  finally  stammered  out  an  in 
coherent  explanation  of  how  they  were  just  riding  by 
and  saw  the  door  standing  open,  and  went  in,  not  mean 
ing  any  harm.  She  denied  knowing  Watson,  but  ad 
mitted  having  met  him  on  the  road  several  times,  and 
hotly  insisted  that  she  had  never  visited  his  house  in  her 
life. 

"Where  have  you  been  living  since  leaving  home?" 

"In  the  hills." 

"Where?" 

"At  the  sawmill." 

"How  long  had  you  been  there  when  you  heard  of 
Watson's  death?" 

"About  two  weeks." 

"Were  you  in  camp?" 

"No,  we  were  staying  in  the  old  cabin  by  the  creek." 

"You  mean  Busby  and  Kitsong  and  yourself?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Well,  now,  which  one  of  these  men  did  you  leave 
home  with — Busby  or  Kitsong?" 

Her  head  drooped,  and  while  she  wavered  Raines  in 
terposed,  arguing  that  the  question  was  not  pertinent. 
But  Carmody  insisted,  and  soon  developed  the  fact 
that  she  was  much  more  eager  to  defend  Busby  than 

344 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

Kitsong.  She  denied  that  he  had  ever  cursed  Watson 
or  threatened  to  do  him  harm,  but  the  coroner  forced 
her  to  admit  that  Busby  had  told  her  of  having  had 
trouble  with  the  dead  man,  and  then,  thrusting  a  pair 
of  shoes  at  her,  he  sternly  asked: 

"Are  these  your  shoes?" 

"No,  sir,"  she  firmly  declared. 

Her  answer  surprised  Hanscom  and  dazed  the  sheriff, 
who  exclaimed  beneath  his  breath,  "The  little  vixen!" 

Carmody's  tone  sharpened:  "Do  you  mean  to  tell 
me  that  these  are  not  the  shoes  you  wore  in  town 
yesterday?" 

"No,  I  don't  mean  that." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  they're  not  my  shoes.  They  belong  to  that 
Kauffman  girl.  I  found  them  in  that  cabin." 

Hanscom  sprang  to  his  feet.  "She's  lying,  Your 
Honor." 

"Sit  down!"  shouted  Raines. 

The  entire  audience  rose  like  a  wave  under  the  in 
fluence  of  the  passion  in  these  voices ;  the  sheriff  shouted 
for  silence  and  order,  and  Carmody  hammered  on  his 
desk,  commanding  everybody  to  be  seated.  At  last, 
when  he  could  be  heard,  he  rebuked  Hanscom. 

"You're  out  of  order,"  he  said,  and,  turning  to  Raines, 
requested  him  to  take  his  seat. 

Raines  shook  his  fist  at  the  ranger.  "You  can't 
address  such  remarks  to  a  witness.  You  sit  down." 

Hanscom  was  defiant.  "I  will  subside  when  you 
do." 

"Sit  down,   both  of  you!"  roared  Carmody. 

They  took  seats,  but  eyed  each  other  like  animals 
crouching  to  spring. 

Carmody  lectured  them  both,  and,  as  he  cooled,  Hans- 
345 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

com  apologized.  "I'm  sorry  I  spoke,"  he  said;  "but 
the  ownership  of  those  shoes  has  got  to  be  proved.  I 
know  they  belong  to  this  girl?" 

"We'll  come  to  that;  don't  you  worry,"  said  Car- 
mody,  and  he  turned  to  Rita,  who  was  cowering  in  the 
midst  of  this  uproar  like  a  mountain  quail.  "Who  told 
you  to  deny  the  ownership  of  these  shoes?" 

"Nobody." 

"Just  reasoned  it  out  yourself,  eh?"  he  asked,  with 
acrid  humor.  "Well,  you're  pretty  smart." 

The  girl,  perceiving  the  importance  of  her  denial, 
enlarged  upon  it,  telling  of  her  need  of  new  shoes  and 
of  finding  this  dry,  warm  pair  in  a  closet  in  the  cabin. 
She  described  minutely  the  worn-out  places  of  her  own 
shoes  and  how  she  had  thrown  them  into  the  stove  and 
burned  them  up,  and  the  audience  listened  with  re 
newed  conviction  that  "the  strange  woman"  was  the 
midnight  prowler  at  the  Watson  cabin,  and  that  Rita 
and  her  companions  were  but  mischievous  hoodlums 
having  no  connection  with  the  murder. 

Hanscom,  filled  with  distrust  of  Carmody,  demanded 
that  the  sheriff  be  called  to  testify  on  this  point,  for  he 
had  made  search  of  the  cabin  in  the  first  instance. 

"We  proved  at  the  other  session  that  Miss  McLaren 
was  unable  to  wear  the  shoes  which  made  the  prints." 

"We  deny  that!"  asserted  Raines.  "That  is  just  the 
point  we  are  trying  to  make.  We  don't  know  that  this 
Kauffman  woman  is  unable  to  wear  those  shoes." 

Carmody  decided  to  call  young  Kitsong,  and  Throop 
led  Rita  away  and  soon  returned  with  Henry,  who  came 
into  the  room  looking  like  a  trapped  fox,  bewildered  yet 
alert.  He  was  rumpled  and  dirty,  like  one  called  from 
sleep  in  a  corral,  but  his  face  appealed  to  the  heart  of 
his  mother,  who  flung  herself  toward  him  with  a  piteous 

346 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

word  of  appeal,  eager  to  let  him  know  that  she  was  pres 
ent  and  faithful. 

The  sheriff  stopped  her,  and  her  husband — whose 
parental  love  was  much  less  vital — called  upon  her  not 
to  make  a  fool  of  herself. 

The  boy  gave  his  name  and  age,  and  stated  his  re 
lationship  to  the  dead  man,  but  declared  he  had  not 
seen  him  for  months.  "I  didn't  know  he  was  dead  till 
the  ranger  told  me,"  he  said.  He  denied  that  he  had 
had  any  trouble  with  Watson.  "He  is  my  uncle,"  he 
added. 

"I've  known  relatives  to  fight,"  commented  the 
coroner,  with  dry  intonation,  and  several  in  the  au 
dience  laughed,  for  it  was  well  known  to  them  that 
the  witness  was  at  outs  not  only  with  his  uncle,  but 
with  his  father. 

"Now,  Henry,"  said  the  coroner,  severely,  "we  know 
this  girl,  Rita,  made  a  night  visit  to  Watson's  cabin. 
We  have  absolute  proof  of  it.  She  did  not  go  there 
alone.  Who  was  with  her?  Did  you  accompany  her 
on  this  trip?" 

"No,  sir." 

"  She  never  made  that  trip  alone.  Some  man  was  with 
her.  If  not  you,  it  must  have  been  Busby." 

A  sullen  look  came  into  the  boy's  face.  "Well,  it 
wasn't  me — I  know  that." 

"Was  it  Busby?" 

He  paused  for  a  long  time,  debating  what  the  effect 
of  his  answer  would  be.  "He  may  of.  I  can't  say." 

Carmody  restated  his  proof  that  Rita  had  been  there 
and  said:  "One  or  the  other  of  you  went.  Now  which 
was  it?" 

The  witness  writhed  like  a  tortured  animal,  and  at  last 
said,  "He  did,"  and  Mrs.  Eli  sighed  with  relief. 

347 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

Carmody  drew  from  him  the  fact  that  Watson  owed 
Busby  money,  and  that  he  had  vainly  tried  to  collect 
it.  He  would  not  say  that  Rita  left  camp  with  Busby, 
but  his  keen  anxiety  to  protect  her  was  evident  to  every 
one  in  the  room.  He  admitted  that  he  expected  Busby 
to  have  trouble  with  Watson. 

Mrs.  Kitsong,  who  saw  with  growing  anxiety  the  drift 
of  the  coroner's  questioning,  called  out:  "Tell  him  the 
truth,  Henry;  the  whole  truth!" 

Raines  silenced  her  savagely,  and  Carmody  said:  "So 
Busby  had  tried  to  collect  that  money  before,  had  he  ? " 

"Tell  him  'yes,'  Henry,"  shouted  Eli,  who  was  now 
quite  as  eager  to  shield  his  son  as  he  had  been  to  convict 
Helen. 

Carmody  warned  him  to  be  quiet.  "You'll  have  a 
chance  very  soon  to  testify  on  this  very  point,"  he  said, 
and  repeated  his  question:  "Busby  had  had  a  fight 
with  Watson,  hadn't  he — a  regular  knockdown  row?" 

Henry,  sweating  with  fear,  now  confessed  that  Busby 
had  returned  from  Watson's  place  furious  with  anger, 
and  this  testimony  gave  an  entirely  new  direction  to 
the  suspicions  of  the  jurors,  several  of  whom  knew  Busby 
as  a  tough  customer. 

Dismissing  Henry  for  the  moment,  Carmody  recalled 
Margarita.  "You  swear  you  never  visited  Watson's 
cabin?"  he  began.  "Well,  suppose  that  I  were  to  tell 
you  that  we  know  you  did,  would  you  still  deny  it?" 
She  looked  at  him  in  scared  silence,  trying  to  measure 
the  force  of  his  question,  while  he  went  on:  "You 
mounted  the  front  steps  and  went  down  the  porch  to 
the  right,  pausing  to  peer  into  the  window.  You  kept 
on  to  the  east  end  of  the  porch,  where  you  dropped 
to  the  ground,  and  continued  on  around  to  the  back  door. 
Do  you  deny  that?" 

348 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

Amazed  by  the  accuracy  of  his  information  and  awed 
by  his  tone,  the  girl  struggled  for  an  answer,  while  the 
audience  waited  as  at  a  crisis  in  a  powerful  play. 

Then  the  coroner  snapped  out,  "Well,  what  were  you 
doing  there?" 

She  looked  at  Henry,  then  at  Mrs.  Eli.  "I  went  to 
borrow  some  blankets,"  she  confessed,  in  a  voice  so  low 
that  only  a  few  heard  her  words. 

"Was  Watson  at  home?" 

"Yes." 

"Did  you  see  him?" 

"Yes." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

At  this  point  she  became  tearful,  and  the  most  that 
could  be  drawn  from  her  was  a  statement  that  Watson 
had  refused  to  loan  or  sell  her  any  blankets.  She  denied 
that  Busby  was  with  her,  and  insisted  that  she  was  alone 
till  Carmody  convinced  her  that  she  was  only  making 
matters  worse  by  such  replies. 

"Your  visit  was  at  night,"  he  said.  "You  would 
never  have  walked  in  that  flour  in  the  daytime,  and 
you  wouldn't  have  gone  there  alone  in  the  night.  Busby 
wouldn't  have  permitted  you  to  go  to  Watson's  alone — 
he  knew  Watson  too  well."  The  force  of  this  remark 
was  felt  by  nearly  every  person  in  the  room. 

Hanscom  said:  "Mr.  Coroner,  this  girl  is  trying  to 
shield  Busby,  and  I  want  her  confronted  by  him,  and  I 
want  Eli  Kitsong  called." 

By  this  time  many  admitted  that  they  might  have 
been  mistaken  in  accusing  the  Kaufrmans  of  the  deed. 

Busby,  a  powerful  young  fellow,  made  a  bad  impres 
sion  on  the  stand.  His  face  was  both  sullen  and  savage, 
and  the  expression  of  his  eyes  furtive.  He  was  plainly 
on  guard  even  before  Raines  warned  him  to  be  careful. 

349 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

"My  name  is  Hart  Busby,"  he  said,  in  answer  to  Car- 
mody.  "I'm  twenty-six  years  old.  I  was  born  in  the 
East.  I've  been  here  eight  years."  Here  he  stopped, 
refusing  to  say  where  his  parents  lived  or  when  he  first 
met  Margarita.  He  flatly  denied  having  had  any  serious 
trouble  with  Watson,  and  declared  that  he  had  not  seen 
him  for  almost  a  year. 

"What  were  you  doing  in  the  Kauffmans'  cabin?"  de 
manded  Hanscom.  "You  won't  deny  my  finding  you 
there,  will  you?" 

He  told  the  same  story  that  Rita  had  sworn  to.  "We 
were  riding  by  and  saw  that  the  place  was  deserted,  and 
so  we  went  in  to  look  around." 

"When  did  you  first  hear  of  Watson's  death?"  asked 
Carmody. 

The  witness  hesitated.  A  look  of  doubt,  of  evasion, 
in  his  eyes.  "Why,  the  ranger  told  us." 

"Which  of  you  owns  that  sorrel  horse?"  asked  one 
of  the  jury. 

Raines  again  interposed.  ' '  You  needn't  answer  that , ' ' 
he  warned.  "That's  not  before  the  court." 

Carmody  went  on.  "Now,  Busby,  you  might  as 
well  tell  us  the  truth.  Henry  and  Rita  both  state  that 
Watson  had  refused  to  pay  you,  and  that  you  had  a 
scrap  and  Watson  kicked  you  off  the  place.  Is  that 
true?" 

Raines  rescued  him.  "You  don't  have  to  answer 
that,"  he  said,  and  the  witness  breathed  an  almost  in 
audible  sigh  of  relief. 

A  violent  altercation  arose  at  this  point  between  the 
coroner  and  the  lawyer.  Carmody  insisted  on  his  right 
to  ask  any  question  he  saw  fit,  and  Raines  retorted  that 
the  witness  had  a  right  to  refuse  to  incriminate  himself. 

"You  stick  to  your  bread  pills  and  vials,"  he  said  to 
350 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

the  coroner,  "and  don't  assume  a  knowledge  of  the  law. 
You  become  ridiculous  when  you  do." 

"I  know  my  powers,"  retorted  Carmody  in  high 
resentment,  "and  you  keep  a  civil  tongue  in  your  head 
or  I'll  fine  you  for  contempt.  I  may  not  know  all  the 
ins  and  outs  of  court  procedure,  but  I'm  going  to  see  jus 
tice  done,  and  I'm  going  to  see  that  you  keep  your 
place." 

"You  can't  steam-roll  me,"  roared  Raines. 

The  argument  became  so  hot  that  Throop  was  forced 
to  interfere,  and  in  the  excitement  and  confusion  of  the 
moment  Busby  mad  a  dash  for  the  door,  and  would 
have  escaped  had  not  Hanscom  intercepted  him.  The 
room  was  instantly  in  an  uproar.  Several  of  Busby's 
friends  leaped  to  his  aid,  and  for  a  few  minutes  it  seemed 
as  if  the  coroner's  court  had  resolved  itself  into  an 
arena  for  battling  bears.  Busby  fought  desperately, 
and  might  have  gained  his  freedom,  after  all,  had  not 
Rawlins  taken  a  hand. 

At  last  Throop  came  into  action.  "Stop  that!"  he 
shouted,  and  fetched  Busby  a  blow  that  ended  his  strug 
gles  for  the  moment.  "Let  go  of  him,  Hanscom,"  he 
said.  "I'll  attend  to  him." 

Hanscom  and  Rawlins  fell  back,  and  Throop,  placing 
one  huge  paw  on  the  outlaw's  shoulder,  shoved  the 
muzzle  of  a  revolver  against  his  neck. 

"Now  you  calm  right  down,  young  man,  and  remem 
ber  you're  in  court  and  not  in  a  barroom." 

Raines,  still  unsubdued,  shouted  out,  "You  take  your 
gun  away  from  that  man,  you  big  stiff!" 

" Silence!"  bellowed  Carmody.  "I'll  have  you  re 
moved  if  you  utter  another  word." 

"I  refuse  to  take  orders  from  a  pill-pusher  like 
you." 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

"Sheriff,  seat  that  man,"  commanded  Carmody, 
white  with  wrath. 

Throop,  thrusting  Busby  back  into  his  chair,  ad 
vanced  upon  Raines  with  ponderous  menace.  "Sit 
down,  you  old  skunk." 

"Don't  you  touch  me!"  snarled  the  lawyer. 

"Out  you  go,"  said  Throop,  with  a  clutch  at  the  de 
fiant  man's  throat. 

Raines  reached  under  his  coat-tails  for  a  weapon,  but 
Rawlins  caught  him  from  behind,  and  Throop,  throwing 
his  arms  around  his  shoulders  in  a  bearlike  hug,  carried 
him  to  his  chair  and  forced  him  into  it. 

"Now  will  you  be  quiet?" 

The  whole  room  was  silent  now,  silent  as  death,  with 
a  dozen  men  on  their  feet  with  weapons  in  their  hands, 
waiting  to  see  if  Raines  would  rise. 

Breaking  this  silence,  Carmody,  lifted  by  excitement 
to  unusual  eloquence,  cried  out:  "Gentlemen,  I  call 
upon  you  to  witness  that  I  am  in  no  way  exceeding  my 
authority.  The  dignity  of  this  court  must  be  upheld." 
He  turned  to  the  jury,  who  were  all  on  end  and  warlike. 
' '  I  call  upon  you  to  witness  the  insult  which  Mr.  Raines 
has  put  on  this  court,  and  unless  he  apologizes  he  will  be 
ejected  from  the  room." 

Raines  saw  that  he  had  gone  too  far,  and  with  a  wry 
face  and  contemptuous  tone  of  voice  muttered  an 
apology  which  was  in  spirit  an  insult,  but  Carmody 
accepted  the  letter  of  it  with  a  warning  that  he  would 
brook  no  further  displays  of  temper. 

When  the  coroner  resumed  his  interrogation  of  Busby, 
whose  sullen  calm  had  given  place  to  a  look  of  alarm 
and  desperation,  he  refused  to  speak  one  word  in  answer 
to  questions,  and  at  last  Carmody,  ordering  him  to  take 
a  seat  in  the  room,  called  Mrs.  Eli  Kitsong  to  the  chair. 

352 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

She  was  a  thin,  pale  little  woman  with  a  nervous 
twitch  on  one  side  of  her  face,  and  the  excitement 
through  which  she  had  just  passed  rendered  her  almost 
speechless;  but  she  managed  to  tell  the  jury  that  Busby 
and  Watson  had  fought  and  that  she  had  warned  her 
son  not  to  run  with  Hart  Busby. 

"I  knew  he'd  get  him  into  trouble,"  she  said.  "I 
told  Henry  not  to  go  with  him;  but  he  went  away  with 
him  in  spite  of  all  I  could  say." 

"Did  you  actually  see  the  fight  between  Busby  and 
Watson?" 

"No,  I  only  heard  Ed  tell  about  it." 

"Did  he  say  Busby  threatened  to  kill  him?" 

"Yes,  he  did,  but  he  laughed  and  said  he  was  not 
afraid  of  a  fool  kid  like  him." 

Busby  was  deeply  disturbed.  He  sat  staring  at  the 
floor,  moistening  his  lips  occasionally  with  the  tip  of  his 
tongue  as  the  coroner  called  one  after  another  of  his 
neighbors  to  testify  against  him.  The  feeling  that  Car- 
mody  was  on  the  right  track  spread  through  the  au 
dience,  but  Abe  insisted  that  the  Kauffmans  be  called 
to  the  stand,  and  to  this  Hanscom  added: 

"I  join  in  that  demand.  Call  Miss  McLaren.  I 
want  the  ownership  of  these  shoes  settled  once  and 
for  all." 

In  the  tone  of  one  making  a  concession,  Carmody  said, 
"Very  well.  Mr.  Sheriff,  take  Busby  out  and  ask  Miss 
McLaren  to  step  this  way." 

As  the  young  ruffian  was  led  out  Rita  sprang  up  as 
if  to  follow  him,  but  Carmody  restrained  her.  "Stay 
where  you  are.  I  want  you  to  confront  Miss  McLaren." 

A  stir,  a  sigh  of  satisfaction,  passed  over  the  room, 
and  every  eye  was  turned  toward  the  door  through 
which  Helen  must  approach.  Not  one  of  all  the  town- 

353 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

folk  and  few  of  the  country-folk  had  ever  seen  her  face 
or  heard  her  voice.  To  them  she  was  a  woman  of 
mystery,  and  for  the  most  part  a  woman  of  dark  re 
pute,  capable  of  any  enormity.  They  believed  that  she 
had  been  living  a  hermit  life  simply  and  only  for  the 
reason  that  she  had  been  driven  out  of  the  East  by  the 
authorities,  and  most  of  them  believed  that  the  man  she 
was  living  with  was  her  paramour. 

Every  preconception  of  her  was  of  this  savage  sort, 
and  so  when  the  sheriff  reappeared,  ushering  in  a  tall, 
composed,  and  handsome  young  woman  whose  bearing, 
as  well  as  her  features,  suggested  education  and  refine 
ment,  the  audience  stared  in  dumb  amazement. 

Hanscom  and  Rawlins  both  rose  to  their  feet,  and 
Carmody,  moved  by  a  somewhat  similar  respect  and 
admiration,  followed  their  example.  He  went  further; 
he  indicated,  with  a  bow,  the  chair  in  which  she  was  to 
sit,  while  the  jurors  with  open  mouths  followed  her 
every  movement.  They  could  not  believe  that  this  was 
the  same  woman  they  had  examined  at  the  previous 
session  of  the  court. 

Hanscom,  without  considering  her  costume  as  de 
signed  to  produce  an  impression — he  was  too  loyal  for 
that — exulted  in  its  perfectly  obvious  effect  on  the 
spectators,  and  glowed  with  confidence  over  the  out 
come. 

She  looked  taller,  fairer,  and  younger  in  her  graceful 
gown,  and  her  broad  hat — which  was  in  sharpest  con 
trast  to  the  sunbonnet  which  had  so  long  been  her  dis 
guise — lent  a  girlish  piquancy  to  her  glance.  Mrs. 
Brinkley  expressed  in  one  short  phrase  the  change  of 
sentiment  which  swept  almost  instantly  over  the  room. 
"Why,  she's  a  lady!"  she  gasped. 

Carmody,  while  not  so  sure  the  witness's  costume  was 
354 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

unpremeditated,  nevertheless  acknowledged  its  power. 
He  opened  his  examination  with  an  apology  for  thus 
troubling  her  a  second  time,  and  explained  that  new 
witnesses  and  new  evidence  made  it  necessary. 

She  accepted  his  apology  with  grave  dignity,  and  in 
answer  to  questions  by  Raines  admitted  that  Kauff- 
man  had  told  her  of  his  clash  with  Watson  over  some 
cattle. 

"But  he  never  threatened  to  shoot  Watson.  He  is 
not  quarrelsome.  On  the  contrary,  he  is  very  gentle 
and  patient,  and  only  resented  Watson's  invasion  of 
our  home." 

Upon  being  shown  the  shoes  which  Rita  Cuneo  had 
worn  she  sharply  answered: 

"No,  they  are  not  mine.  I  could  not  wear  them. 
They  are  much  too  small  for  me." 

This  answer,  though  fully  expected  by  Hanscom  and 
the  coroner,  sent  another  wave  of  excitement  over  the 
audience,  and  when  Carmody  said,  almost  apologetically, 
"Miss  McLaren,  will  you  kindly  try  on  these  shoes?" 
the  women  in  the  room  rose  from  their  seats  in  access  of 
interest,  and  loud  cries  of  "Down  in  front!"  arose  from 
those  behind  them. 

Seemingly  without  embarrassment,  yet  with  height 
ened  color,  Helen  removed  one  of  her  shoes — a  plain  low 
walking-shoe — and  handed  it  to  Carmody,  who  received 
it  with  respectful  care  and  handed  it  to  the  foreman  of 
the  jury,  asking  him  to  make  comparison  of  it  with  the 
footprints. 

The  jurors,  two  by  two,  examined,  measured,  mut 
tered,  while  the  audience  waited  in  growing  impatience 
for  their  report.  Most  of  the  onlookers  believed  this 
to  be  a  much  more  important  test  than  it  really  was,  and 
when  at  last  the  foreman  returned  the  shoe,  saying, 

355 


THEY    OF    THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

"This  ain't  the  shoe  that  made  the  tracks,"  the  court 
room  buzzed  with  pleased  comment. 

Raines  was  on  his  feet.  "Mr.  Coroner,  we  demand 
that  the  witness  try  on  that  other  pair  of  shoes.  We 
are  not  convinced  that  she  cannot  wear  them." 

Carmody  yielded,  and  the  room  became  very  quiet 
as  Helen,  with  noticeable  effort,  wedged  her  foot  into 
the  shoe. 

"I  cannot  put  it  on;  it  is  too  small,"  she  said  to  Car 
mody,  and  Rita,  who  sat  near,  bent  a  terrified  gaze 
upon  her. 

Raines  then  called  out :  "  She's  placing  off.  Have  her 
stand  up." 

Hanscom,  furious  at  this  indignity,  protested  that  it 
was  not  necessary,  but  Helen  rose  and,  drawing  aside 
the  hem  of  her  skirt,  calmly  offered  her  foot  for  in 
spection. 

"I  can't  possibly  walk  in  it,"  she  said,  addressing  the 
jury. 

One  by  one  the  jury  clumsily  knelt  and  examined  her 
foot,  then  returned  to  their  seats,  and  when  the  foreman 
said,  "That  never  was  her  shoe,"  a  part  of  the  audience 
applauded  his  utterance  as  conclusive. 

"That  will  do,  Miss  McLaren,"  said  Carmody;  "you 
may  step  down."  And,  turning  sharply  to  where  Rita 
sat  with  open  mouth  and  dazed  glance,  he  demanded: 
"Do  you  know  what  the  court  calls  your  testimony? 
It's  perjury!  That's  what  it  is!  Do  you  know  what 
we  can  do  to  you?  We  can  shut  you  up  in  jail.  These 
shoes  are  yours.  Are  you  ready  to  say  so  now?" 

She  shrank  from  him,  and  her  eyes  fell. 

Raines  intervened.  "You  are  intimidating  the  wit 
ness,"  he  protested. 

Carmody  repeated  his  question,  "  Are  these  your  shoes?" 

356 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

"Yes,  sir,"  she  faintly  answered;  a  sigh  of  relief,  a 
ripple  of  applause,  again  interrupted  the  coroner. 

Hanscom  rose.  "Mr.  Coroner,  in  view  of  this  testi 
mony,  I  move  Miss  McLaren  be  excused  from  further 
attendance  on  this  court." 

The  unmistakable  rush  of  sympathy  toward  Helen 
moved  Carmody  to  dramatize  the  moment.  "Miss 
McLaren,"  he  said,  with  judicial  poise,  "I  am  con 
vinced  that  you  are  not  a  material  witness  in  this  case. 
You  are  dismissed." 

The  hearty  handclapping  of  a  majority  of  the  auditors 
followed,  and  Helen  was  deeply  touched.  Her  voice 
was  musical  with  feeling  as  she  said: 

"Thank  you,  sir.  I  am  very  grateful.  Is  my  father 
also  excused?" 

"Unless  the  jury  wishes  to  question  him." 

The  jurors  conferred,  and  finally  the  spokesman  said, 
"I  don't  think  we'll  need  him." 

"Very  well,  then,  you  are  both  free." 

Mrs.  Brinkley,  a  round-faced,  fresh-complexioned  lit 
tle  woman,  who  had  been  sitting  near  the  front  seat, made 
a  rush  for  Helen,  eager  to  congratulate  her  and  invite 
her  to  dinner.  Others,  both  men  and  women,  followed, 
and  Jpr  a  time  all  business  was  suspended.  It  was  evi 
dent  that  Helen  had  in  very  truth  been  on  trial  for 
murder,  and  that  the  coroner's  dismissal  was  in  effect 
her  acquittal.  Hanscom,  on  the  edge  of  the  throng, 
waited  impatiently  for  an  opportunity  to  present  Raw- 
lins.  Raines  and  Kit  song  excitedly  argued. 

Meanwhile  the  jury  and  the  coroner  were  in  con 
ference,  and  at  last  Carmody  called  for  the  finding: 
"We  believe  that  the  late  Edward  Watson  came  to  his 
death  at  the  hands  of  one  Hart  Busby,  with  Henry  Kit- 
song  and  Margarita  Cuneo  knowing  to  it,  and  we  move 

357 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

that  they  be  held  to  the  grand  jury  for  trial  at  the 
next  term  of  court,"  drawled  the  foreman  and  sat  down. 

No  one  applauded  now,  but  a  murmur  of  satisfaction 
passed  over  the  room.  Eli  and  Abe  sprang  up  in  excited 
clamor,  and  Raines  made  violent  protest  against  the 
injustice  of  the  verdict. 

"It's  all  irregular!"  he  shouted. 

Carmody  remained  firm.  "This  finding  will  stand," 
he  said.  "The  court  is  adjourned." 

Raines  immediately  made  his  way  to  Hanscom  and 
laid  a  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "In  that  case,"  he  said, 
"  I'll  take  you  into  camp.  Mr.  Sheriff,  I  have  a  warrant 
for  this  man's  arrest." 

Hanscom  was  not  entirely  surprised,  but  he  resented 
their  haste  to  humiliate  him  before  the  crowd— and  be 
fore  Helen.  ' '  Don't  do  that  now, ' '  he  protested.  ' '  Wait 
an  hour  or  two.  Wait  till  I  can  get  Miss  McLaren  and 
her  father  out  of  the  country.  I  give  you  my  word  I'll 
not  run  away." 

Carmody,  seeing  Raines  with  his  hand  on  the  ranger's 
arm,  understood  what  it  meant  and  hurried  over  to  urge 
a  decent  delay.  "Let  him  put  the  girl  on  the  train," 
he  said. 

"I'll  give  him  two  hours,"  said  Raines,  "and  not  a 
minute  more." 

Hanscom  glanced  at  Helen  and  was  glad  of  the  fact 
that,  being  surrounded  by  her  women  sympathizers, 
she  had  seen  and  heard  nothing  of  the  enemy's  new 
attack  upon  him. 


VIII 

Helen  and  the  ranger  left  the  room  together,  and  no 
sooner  were  they  free  from  the  crowd  than  she  turned 

353 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

to  him  with  a  smile  which  expressed  affection  as  well 
as  gratitude. 

"How  much  we  owe  to  you  and  Dr.  Carmody,  and 
what  a  sorry  interruption  we've  caused  in  your  work." 

He  protested  that  the  interruption  had  been  entirely 
a  pleasure,  but  she,  while  knowing  nothing  of  his  im 
pending  arrest,  was  fully  aware  that  he  had  undergone 
actual  hardship  for  her  sake,  and  her  plan  for  hurrying 
away  seemed  at  the  moment  most  ungracious.  Yet 
this,  after  all,  was  precisely  what  she  now  decided  to  do. 

"Is  there  time  for  us  to  catch  that  eastbound  ex 
press?"  she  asked. 

Her  words  chilled  his  heart  with  a  quick  sense  of  im 
pending  loss,  but  he  looked  at  his  watch.  "Yes,  if  it 
should  happen  to  be  late,  as  it  generally  is."  Then, 
forgetting  his  parole,  in  a  voice  which  expressed  more  of 
his  pain  than  he  knew,  he  said:  "I  hate  to  see  you  go. 
Can't  you  wait  another  day?" 

His  pleading  touched  a  vibrant  spot  in  her,  but  she 
was  resolved.  "I  have  an  almost  insane  desire  to  get 
away,"  she  hurriedly  explained.  "I  am  afraid  of  this 
country.  Its  people  scare  me!"  A  quick  change  in 
her  voice  indicated  a  new  thought.  "I  hope  the  Kit- 
songs  will  not  continue  in  pursuit  of  you." 

"They  won't  have  a  chance  to  do  that,"  he  replied, 
gloomily.  "I'm  leaving,  too.  I  have  resigned." 

"  Oh  no !    You  mustn't  do  that. ' ' 

"I  turned  in  my  papers  this  morning. "  He  suddenly 
recalled  his  parole.  "I  shall  soon  be  free — I  hope — to 
go  anywhere  and  do  anything — and  I'd  like  to  keep  in 
touch  with  you — if  you'll  let  me." 

She  evaded  him.  "I  shall  be  very  sorry  if  we  are 
the  cause  of  your  leaving  the  service." 

"Well,  you  are — but  not  in  the  way  you  mean.  You 
24  359 


THEY   OF    THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

have  made  me  discontented  with  myself,  that's  all,  and 
I'm  going  to  get  out  of  the  tall  timber  and  see  if  I  can't 
do  something  in  the  big  world.  I  want  to  win  your 
respect." 

"I  respect  you  now.  Your  work  as  a  forester  seems 
to  me  very  fine  and  honorable." 

"The  work  is  all  right,  but  I'm  leaving  it,  just  the 
same.  I  can't  see  a  future  in  it.  Fact  is,  I  begin  to  long 
for  a  home;  that  lunch  in  your  cabin  started  me  on  a 
new  line  of  thought." 

The  memory  of  his  visit  to  her  garden  in  the  valley 
seemed  now  like  a  chapter  in  the  story  of  a  far-off  com 
munity,  and  she  could  hardly  relate  herself  to  the  her 
mit  girl  who  served  the  tea,  but  the  forester — whom  she 
recognized  as  a  lover — was  becoming  every  moment 
nearer,  more  insistent.  A  time  of  reckoning  was  at 
hand,  and  because  she  could  not  meet  it  she  was  eager 
to  escape — to  avoid  the  giving  of  pain.  His  face  and 
voice  had  become  dear — and  might  grow  dearer.  There 
fore  she  made  no  comment  on  his  statement  of  a 
desire  for  a  home,  and  he  asked: 

"Don't  you  feel  like  going  back  to  your  garden  once 
more?" 

"No,"  she  answered,  sharply,  "I  never  want  to  see 
the  place  again.  It  is  repulsive  to  me." 

Again  a  little  silence  intervened.  "I  hate  to  think 
of  your  posies  perishing  for  lack  of  care,"  he  said,  with 
gentle  sadness.  "If  I  can,  I'll  ride  over  once  in  a  while 
and  see  that  they  get  some  water." 

His  words  exerted  a  magical  power.  She  began  to 
weaken  in  resolution.  It  was  not  an  easy  thing  to  sever 
the  connection  which  had  been  so  strangely  established 
between  herself  and  this  good  friend,  who  seemed  each 
moment  to  be  less  the  simple  mountaineer  she  had  once 

360 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

believed  him  to  be.  Western  he  was,  forthright  and 
rough  hewn,  but  he  had  shown  himself  a  man  in  every 
emergency — a  candid,  strong  man.  Her  throat  filled 
with  emotion,  but  she  walked  beside  him  in  silence. 

He  had  another  care  on  his  mind.  "  You'd  better  let 
me  round  up  your  household  goods,"  he  suggested. 

"Oh  no.     Let  them  go;  they're  not  worth  the  effort." 

He  insisted.  "I  don't  like  to  think  of  any  one  else 
having  them.  It  made  me  hot  just  to  see  that  girl 
playing  your  guitar.  I'll  have  'em  all  brought  down 
and  stored  somewhere.  You  may  want  'em  some 
time." 

She  was  rather  glad  to  find  they  had  reached  the  door 
of  Carmody's  office  and  that  further  confidences  were 
impossible,  for  she  was  discovering  herself  to  be  each 
moment  deeper  in  his  debt  and  correspondingly  less  able 
to  withstand  his  wistful,  shy  demand. 

Mrs.  Carmody,  a  short,  fat,  excited  person,  met  them 
in  the  hall  with  a  cackle  of  alarm.  "I'm  awfully  glad 
you've  come,"  she  exclaimed.  "Your  father  has  been 
taken  with  a  cramp  or  something." 

Helen  paled  with  apprehension  of  disaster,  for  she 
knew  that  her  father  had  been  keenly  suffering  all  the 
morning.  "Here  I  am,  daddy,"  she  cheerily  called, 
as  she  entered  the  room.  "It's  all  right.  The  inquest 
is  over  and  we  are  free  to  go." 

Kauffman,  who  was  lying  on  a  couch  in  a  corner  of 
the  office,  turned  his  face  and  bravely  smiled.  "I'm 
glad,"  he  weakly  replied.  "I  was  afraid  they  would 
call  me  to  the  stand  again." 

Kneeling  at  his  side,  she  studied  his  face  with  anxious 
care.  "Are  you  worse,  daddy?  Has  your  pain  in 
creased?" 

"Yes,  Nellie,  it  is  worse.  I  fear  I  am  to  be  very  ill." 
361 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

She  took  his  hand  in  hers,  a  pang  of  remorseful  pity 
wrenching  her  heart.  "Don't  say  that,  daddy,"  she 
gently  chided.  "Keep  your  good  courage."  She  looked 
up  at  the  ranger,  who  stood  near  with  troubled  brow. 
"Mr.  Hanscom,  will  you  please  find  Dr.  Carmody  and 
tell  him  my  father  needs  him?" 

With  a  quick  word  of  assurance  he  hurried  away,  and 
the  girl,  bending  to  the  care  of  her  stepfather,  suffered 
from  a  full  realization  of  the  fact  that  he  had  been 
brought  to  this  condition  by  the  strength  of  his  devotion 
to  her.  "For  my  sake  he  exiled  himself,  for  me  he  has 
been  assaulted,  wounded,  arrested" — and,  looking  down 
upon  him  in  the  light  of  her  recovered  sense  of  values, 
she  became  very  humble. 

"Dear  old  daddy,"  she  wailed,  "it's  all  my  fault. 
What  can  I  do  to  make  amends?  You've  sacrificed 
so  much  for  me." 

Sick  as  he  was,  the  old  man  did  his  best  to  comfort 
her,  but  she  was  still  sitting  on  the  floor,  with  head 
bowed  in  troubled  thought,  when  Hanscom  and  Carmody 
hurried  in.  Her  relief,  made  manifest  by  the  instant 
movement  with  which  she  gave  way  to  him,  was  almost 
childlike. 

"Oh,  Doctor,  I'm  glad  to  see  you!"  she  cried  out.  "I 
was  afraid  your  legal  duties  might  keep  you." 

"Luckily  my  legal  duties  are  over,"  he  replied,  quick 
ly,  "and  I'm  glad  of  it.  I  hope  I  never  '11  have  another 
such  case." 

A  brief  examination  convinced  him  that  the  sick 
man  should  be  put  to  bed,  and  he  suggested  the  Palace 
Hotel,  which  stood  but  a  few  doors  away. 

"He  can't  travel  to-day,"  he  added,  knowing  that 
Helen  had  planned  to  take  the  train. 

Kauffman  insisted  on  going.  "I  can  walk,"  he  §aid, 
363 


THE   FOREST    RANGER 

firmly.  "I  feel  a  little  dizzy,  but  I'll  be  all  right  in 
the  coach." 

Hanscom  was  at  his  side,  supporting  him.  "You'd 
better  wait  a  day,"  he  said,  gently;  and  Helen  under 
stood  and  sided  with  him. 

Together  they  helped  the  sick  man  to  the  door  and 
into  the  doctor's  car,  and  in  a  few  minutes  Kauffman  was 
stretched  upon  a  good  bed  in  a  pleasant  room.  With  a 
deep  sigh  of  relief  he  laid  his  head  upon  the  soft  pillow. 

"I  am  glad  not  to  entrain  to-day,"  he  said.  "To 
morrow  will  be  better  for  us  all." 

* '  Never  mind  about  to-morrow, ' '  said  Hanscom.  ' '  You 
rest  as  easy  as  you  can." 

Helen  followed  Carmody  into  the  hall.  "Tell  me 
the  truth,"  she  demanded.  "Is  he  injured  internally?" 

"It's  hard  to  say  what  his  injuries  are,"  he  cau 
tiously  replied.  "He's  badly  bruised  and  feverish,  but 
it  may  be  nothing  serious.  However,  he  can't  travel 
for  a  few  days,  that's  certain." 

She  was  not  entirely  reassured  by  his  reply,  and  her 
voice  was  bitterly  accusing  as  she  said:  "If  he  should 
die,  I  would  never  forgive  myself.  He  came  here  on  my 
account." 

"There's  no  immediate  danger.  He  seems  strong 
and  will  probably  throw  this  fever  off  in  a  few  hours, 
but  he  must  be  kept  quiet  and  cheerful." 

There  was  a  rebuke  in  his  final  words,  and  she  ac 
cepted  it  as  such.  "I'll  do  the  best  I  can,  Doctor,"  she 
replied,  and  returned  to  her  duty. 

Hanscom,  divining  some  part  of  the  passion  of  self- 
accusation  into  which  the  girl  had  been  thrown,  eagerly 
asked,  "Is  there  something  more  I  can  do?" 

"If  you  will  have  our  bags  brought,  I  shall  be  grateful. 
We  may  not  be  able  to  leave  for  several  days." 

363 


THEY   OF    THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

"I'll  attend  to  them  at  once,  but" — he  looked  aside 
as  if  afraid  of  revealing  something — "I  may  be  called 
away  during  the  afternoon  on  business,  and  if  I  am,  don't 
think  I'm  neglecting  you." 

"How  long  will  you  be  gone?" 

"I  can't  tell — for  a  day  or  two,  perhaps." 

The  thought  of  his  going  gave  her  a  sharp  pang  of 
prospective  loneliness.  "I  know  you  must  return  to 
your  work,"  she  said,  slowly,  ''but  I  shall  feel  very  help 
less  without  you,"  and  the  voicing  of  her  dependence 
upon  him  added  defmiteness  and  power  to  her  regret. 

He  hastened  to  say:  "I  won't  go  if  I  can  possibly 
help  it,  be  sure  of  that;  but  something  has  come  up 
which  may  make  it  necessary  for  me  to — to  take  a  trip. 
I'll  return  as  soon  as  I  can.  I'll  hurry  away  now  and 
bring  your  baggage;  that  much  I  can  surely  do,"  and 
he  went  out,  leaving  her  greatly  troubled  by  something 
unexplained  in  the  manner  of  his  going. 

Stopping  at  Carmody's,  Hanscom  again  thanked  him 
for  his  kindness  and  warned  him  not  to  say  one  word 
to  Helen  about  his  fight  with  Abe  nor  about  the  warrant 
that  was  hanging  over  him. 

"She  has  enough  to  worry  about  as  it  is,"  he  said; 
"and  if  they  get  me,  as  they  will,  I  want  you  to  look 
after  her  and  let  me  know  how  she  gets  on." 

Carmody  did  not  attempt  to  minimize  the  seriousness 
of  the  opposition.  "Abe  can  make  a  whole  lot  of  trouble 
for  you,  in  one  way  and  another,  and  even  if  you  shake 
him  off,  you're  in  for  a  settlement  with  old  Cuneo,  who 
will  reach  here  to-night.  As  near  as  I  can  discover,  he's 
one  of  those  pop-eyed  foreigners  who'd  just  as  soon  use 
a  knife  as  not,  and  Abe  will  do  his  best  to  spur  him  into 
jumping  you." 

"Well,  looks  like  he'll  have  hard  work  reaching  me, 
364 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

for,  unless  somebody  goes  my  bail,  I'm  likely  to  be  safe 
in  the  'cooler'  when  he  gets  here." 

Carmody  had  been  decidedly  friendly  all  through  this 
troublesome  week,  and  here  was  a  good  place  for  him 
to  say,  ''I'll  go  your  bail,  Hans,"  but  he  didn't — he 
couldn't.  He  was  poor  and  not  very  secure  in  his  posi 
tion,  so  he  let  Hanscom  go  out,  and  took  up  his  own 
work  with  a  feeling  that  he  was  playing  a  poor  part  in 
a  rough  game. 

The  news  of  Kauffman's  illness  reached  kindly  Mrs. 
Brinkley  and  moved  her  to  call  upon  Helen,  to  offer  her 
services,  and  in  the  midst  of  her  polite  condolences  she 
said:  "Mr.  Hanscom's  arrest  must  have  infuriated  you. 
It  did  me." 

Helen  turned  a  startled  glance  upon  her  visitor.  "I 
didn't  know  he  was  arrested." 

"Didn't  you?    Well,  he  is,"  said  Mrs.  Brinkley. 

"Why;  that  can't  be  true!  He  was  here  less  than  an 
hour  ago." 

"He's  just  been  arrested  for  assaulting  Kitsong." 

Helen,  still  unable  to  believe  in  this  calamity,  stam 
mered:  "But  I  don't  understand.  When  did  he —  When 
was  ^Kitsong — assaulted?" 

"Last  night,"  replied  her  visitor,  with  relish,  "and 
you  were  the  cause  of  it — in  a  way." 

"I?" 

"So  the  story  goes.  It  seems  Abe  got  nasty  about 
you,  and  Mr.  Hanscom  resented  it.  They  had  a  fight 
and  Abe  was  hurt.  Unless  somebody  bails  him  out  the 
poor  ranger  will  have  to  go  to  jail." 

The  memory  of  the  ranger's  last  look  completed 
Helen's  understanding  of  the  situation,  and  she  listened 
abstractedly  while  her  visitor  rattled  on: 

"Of  course,  the  judge  can't  do  anything,  much  as 
365 


THEY   OF   THE   HIGH   TRAILS 

he  likes  Mr.  Hanscom,  and  I  really  don't  see  who  is 
to  go  on  his  bond.     He  hasn't  any  relatives  here." 

At  this  point  Helen  raised  her  head  and  interrupted 
her  guest's  commiserating  comment.  "Yes,  you  can  do 
something  for  me.  I  wish  you  would  ask  Mr.  Willing, 
the  vice-president  of  the  First  National  Bank,  to  come 
over  here.  I  want  to  consult  him  on  a  most  important 
business  matter,  and  I  cannot  leave  my  father.  Will 
you  do  this?" 

"Certainly,  with  pleasure.  I  was  hoping  to  be  of 
use,"  said  Mrs.  Brinkley,  and  she  went  away  greatly 
wondering  what  this  strange  young  woman  could  pos 
sibly  want  of  Mr.  Willing. 

Helen,  with  eyes  fixed  on  her  father's  still  form,  went 
over  every  look  and  word  the  ranger  had  uttered  and 
understood  at  last  that  the  "little  trip"  he  feared  was 
a  sentence  to  the  county  jail.  She  was  still  in  profound 
thought  when  Mr.  Willing  was  announced.  He  was  a 
neat,  small  man,  whose  position  in  the  bank  was  largely 
social.  Being  a  friend  of  Mrs.  Brinkley,  and  keenly 
interested  in  the  reports  of  Helen's  romantic  appearance 
in  the  court-room,  he  came  to  her  door  in  smiling  and 
elaborate  courtliness. 

Helen  coldly  checked  his  gallant  advances.  "Mr. 
Willing,"  she  said,  with  business-like  brevity,  "I  have 
an  account  with  the  Walnut  Hills  Trust  Company,  of 
Cincinnati,  and  I  want  a  part  of  that  money  transferred, 
by  telegraph,  to  my  credit  in  your  bank.  Can  it  be 
done?" 

"It  is  possible — yes." 

"I  need  these  funds  at  once.  I  must  have  them.  Will 
you  please  wire  Mr.  Paul  Lyford,  president  of  the  com 
pany,  and  have  five  thousand  dollars  transferred  to  my 
credit  in  your  bank?" 

366 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

Mr.  Willing  was  cautious.  He  took  the  name  and 
address.  "I  will  see  what  can  be  done,"  he  said,  non- 
committally.  "Is  there  anything  else  I  can  do?" 

"Yes,  I  have  just  heard  that  Mr.  Hanscom  has  been 
arrested.  If  this  is  true  I  want  him  bailed  out  as  soon 
as  possible.  I  don't  know  how  these  things  are  done, 
but  I  want  to  go  on  his  bond.  He  should  have  a  lawyer 
also.  He  has  fallen  into  this  trouble  entirely  on  my 
account,  and  I  cannot  permit  him  to  suffer.  He  must 
be  defended." 

"I'll  do  what  I  can,"  responded  Willing,  "but,  of 
course,  the  matter  of  release,  on  bail,  lies  with  the 
judge." 

"What  judge?" 

"Probably  Judge  Brinkley." 

"I  am  glad  of  that.  Mr.  Hanscom  knows  Judge 
Brinkley.  As  soon  as  you  hear  from  Mr.  Lyford  let 
me  know,  please." 

Meanwhile  Hanscom  had  been  stopped  while  bring 
ing  the  valises  to  the  hotel  and  was  now  in  Throop's  care. 
Each  hour  seemed  to  involve  the  ranger  deeper,  ever 
deeper,  in  his  slough  of  troubles,  for  it  was  reported  that 
Cuneo  had  'phoned  in  from  the  Cambria  power-dam 
saying  he  would  reach  the  town  in  two  hours,  and  one 
who  had  talked  with  him  said  the  receiver  burned  his 
ear,  so  hot  was  the  sheepman's  wrath. 

Helen,  greatly  troubled,  in  an  agony  of  impatience 
awaited  Willing' s  return,  and  the  housekeeper  of  the 
hotel,  who  came  to  offer  her  advice,  did  not  help  to 
tranquillity. 

"It's  a  good  thing  the  ranger's  locked  up,"  she  said, 
"for  old  Cuneo,  father  of  the  girl,  is  in  town  and  on 
the  ranger's  trail  with  blood  in  his  eye." 

Of  course  the  eager  gossip  did  not  know  that  the 

367 


THEY   OF    THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

ranger  and  this  handsome  girl  were  something  more  than 
acquaintances,  hence  she  felt  free  to  enlarge  upon  and 
embroider  each  scrap  of  rumor,  after  the  fashion  of  her 
kind,  and  Helen  had  great  difficulty  in  concealing  her 
increasing  anxiety  and  self-accusation. 

"  Don't  say  any  of  these  things  in  my  father's  hearing/' 
she  sharply  urged.  "He  must  be  kept  free  from  excite 
ment." 

It  was  a  singular,  a  most  revealing  experience  for 
Helen  to  find  that  her  deepening  care  for  her  stepfather 
and  a  grave  sense  of  responsibility  toward  Hanscom 
were  bringing  out  decision  and  determination  in  her 
own  character.  She  increased  in  vigor  and  perception. 
"They  shall  not  persecute  this  man  because  he  is  poor 
and  alone,"  she  declared,  recalling  with  keen  sense  of 
pity  his  frank  statement  that  all  his  property  consisted 
of  a  couple  of  ponies,  a  saddle,  and  a  typewriter. 

She  could  not  leave  her  father  till  a  nurse  came,  and, 
as  there  was  no  telephone  in  her  room,  she  could  only 
wait — wait  and  think,  and  in  this  thinking  she  gave 
large  space  to  the  forester.  Her  apathy,  her  bitterness 
were  both  gone.  She  was  no  longer  the  recluse.  The 
mood  which  had  made  her  a  hermit  now  seemed  both 
futile  and  morbid — and  yet  she  was  not  ready  to  return 
to  her  friends  and  relatives  in  the  East.  That  life  she 
had  also  put  away.  "What  if  I  were  to  make  a  new 
home — somewhere  in  the  West?"  she  said,  and  in  this 
speculation  the  worshipful  face  of  the  ranger  came  clear 
before  her  eyes. 

She  was  restless  and  aching  with  inaction  when  a  hall- 
boy  announced  the  return  of  Mr.  Willing,  and,  stepping 
into  the  hall,  she  discovered  an  entirely  different  Mr. 
Willing.  He  was  no  longer  gallant;  he  was  quietly  re 
spectful.  With  congratulatory  word  he  handed  to  her 

368 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

two  telegrams,  one  addressed  to  her,  the  other  to  the 
bank.  One  was  from  the  president  of  the  Walnut  Hills 
Trust  Company.  It  read:  "  Place  five  thousand  dollars 
to  Miss  McLaren's  credit.  See  that  she  wants  for  noth 
ing.  Report  if  she  needs  help.  Her  family  is  greatly 
alarmed.  Any  information  concerning  her  will  be  deep 
ly  appreciated.  Ask  her  to  report  at  once." 

The  other  was  to  Helen  from  Mr.  Lyford,  whom  she 
had  known  for  many  years.  As  she  read  her  face  flushed 
and  her  eyes  misted;  then  a  glowing  tide  of  power,  a 
sense  of  security,  swept  over  her. 

"After  all,  I  am  alive  and  young  and  rightful  owner 
of  this  money,"  she  said  to  herself.  "I  will  claim  it  and 
use  it  for  some  good  purpose,  and  at  this  moment,  what 
better  purpose  than  to  see  that  a  brave,  good  man  shall 
not  lie  in  prison?"  And,  thanking  the  banker  for  his 
aid,  she  added:  "If  Mr.  Rawlins,  the  supervisor,  is  still 
in  town,  I  wish  you  would  find  him  and  ask  him  to  come 
to  me;  tell  him  I  want  to  see  him  immediately." 

Willing  took  occasion,  as  he  went  through  the  hotel 
office  down-stairs,  to  call  the  proprietor  aside  and  say: 
"Anything  Miss  McLaren  wants  you'd  better  supply. 
She's  able  to  pay." 

The  landlord,  who  had  shared  the  general  suspicion 
abroad  in  the  community,  stared.  "Are  you  sure  of 
that?  I  was  just  wondering  about  these  folks.  They 
have  the  reputation  of  being  as  poor  as  Job's  off  ox." 

"You  needn't  worry.  The  girl  has  a  balance  in  our 
bank  of  several  thousand  dollars." 

"You  don't  tell  me!"  exclaimed  the  landlord. 

Willing  went  on,  smoothly:  "Better  give  her  the 
parlor  and  put  an  extension  'phone  in  for  her  use.  She 
needs  a  trained  nurse,  but  I'll  attend  to  that  if  you'll 
see  to  the  'phone." 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

In  theory,  we  all  despise  money ;  in  fact,  we  find  it  of 
wondrous  potency.  Behold  this  hotelkeeper  mentally 
taking  his  feet  from  his  desk  and  removing  his  hat 
when  he  learned  that  one  of  these  hermits  had  unlimited 
credit  at  the  bank.  Mr.  Willing's  cashier  was  also 
deeply  impressed  and  puzzled. 

"What  did  such  a  girl  mean  by  living  away  up  there 
with  that  Shellfish  gang  of  rustlers  and  counterfeiters? 
What's  the  idea?"  he  asked,  irritably.  "She  certainly 
has  acted  like  a  fly-by-night  up  to  this  time." 

"Well,  she's  established  herself  now.  Her  connec 
tions  are  first  class,"  Willing  rejoined.  "Here's  another 
telegram  from  Louisville  asking  full  information  con 
cerning  Miss  McLaren  and  Arnold  Kauffman.  They 
don't  stop  at  expense.  Evidently  they  have  all  been  in 
the  dark  about  the  girl's  whereabouts  and  want  the  facts. 
Some  story  to  put  into  a  telegram,  but  I'll  do  my  best." 

"Don't  scare  'em,"  cautioned  Knight.  "Say  she's 
all  right  and  surrounded  by  friends." 

Willing  took  his  turn  at  smiling.  "Didn't  look  that 
way  this  morning,  did  it?  But  she's  all  right  now — ex 
cept  that  she's  terribly  wrought  up  over  Hanscom's 
predicament." 

"Well,  no  wonder.  As  near  as  I  can  figger,  he's 
stood  by  her  like  a  brother-in-law,  and  the  least  she  can 
do  is  to  stick  around  and  help  him  out." 

Conditions  between  Helen  and  the  ranger  were  now 
precisely  reversed.  It  was  she  who  was  eagerly  trying 
to  save  him  from  the  prison  cell.  She  was  alarmed,  also, 
by  the  prediction  made  by  the  housekeeper  that  if  the 
ranger  were  released  on  bail  he  would  only  be  out  of 
the  frying-pan  into  the  fire,  for  old  Cuneo  would  surely 
meet  him  and  demand  satisfaction. 

"Perhaps  if  I  were  to  see  Cuneo,"  she  thought,  "I 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

could  persuade  him  that  Mr.  Hanscom  had  no  wish  to 
involve  Margarita — that  her  arrest  was  only,  in  a  way, 
incidental  to  Busby's  capture." 

She  said  nothing  of  this  resolution,  but  sent  a  note 
to  Throop,  requesting  him  to  let  Rawlins  know  that 
she  was  ready  to  bail  Hanscom.  "It  will  be  a  great 
injustice  if  he  is  held  on  my  account." 

Throop  replied  in  person,  for  he  liked  Helen  and  was 
eager  to  do  Hanscom  a  favor.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "Hans 
is  in  jail,  but  not  in  a  cell,  and  I  think  Rawlins  will 
succeed  in  reaching  the  judge  and  so  get  out  the  writ 
this  afternoon." 

"Is  there  not  some  way  for  me  to  help?  How  much 
bail  is  needed?" 

"Well,  all  depends  on  the  judge.  The  charge  the 
Kitsongs  bring  is  pretty  serious.  They  call  it  assault 
with  a  deadly  weapon,  and  I'll  have  to  testify  that 
Hans  was  armed  when  I  came  into  the  scrap — and  yet 
Simpson  says  he  left  the  hotel  without  his  gun — Simp 
son  declares  Hanscom  said:  'I'm  safer  without  it.  I 
might  fly  mad  and  hurt  somebody  with  it!'  As  I  say, 
I  didn't  see  the  beginning  of  the  battle,  but  when  I 
broke  into  it,  'peared  to  me  more  like  a  dozen  armed 
men  were  attacking  Hans.  They  had  him  jammed  up 
against  the  wall.  He  was  righting  mad — I  must  admit 
that,  and  later  he  had  a  gun.  Where  he  got  it,  I  don't 
know.  However,  that  shouldn't  count  against  him, 
for  he  was  only  defending  himself  as  any  citizen  has  a 
right  to  do." 

"Surely  the  judge  will  take  that  into  account?" 

"He  will;  but  you  see  the  witnesses  are  mostly  all 
Abe's  friends.  And  then  Hans  did  begin  it — he  admits 
he  jolted  Abe.  However,  the  case  will  come  up  before 
Brinkley,  and  he's  friendly.  He'll  4o  all  he  can," 

37* 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

"Could  I  see  him — I  mean  the  judge?" 

"Better  not.  Judges  are  fairly  testy  about  being 
'  seen.'  It  would  look  bad — especially  after  it  got  noised 
around  that  you  had  money  to  spend  on  the  case." 

"Anyhow,  Mr.  Rawlins  must  let  me  relieve  him  of 
the  financial  part  of  the  burden.  It  may  not  be  easy  for 
him  to  sign  such  a  bond." 

"It  isn't  easy — now,  that's  the  truth,"  admitted 
Throop.  "You  see,  he's  only  a  young  fellow  on  a 
salary,  and  it  means  a  whole  lot  to  a  man  just  starting 
a  home.  He  might  have  to  pledge  his  entire  outfit." 

"Don't  let  him  do  that — he  mustn't  do  that!  Tell 
him  that  I  will  assume  all  the  hazard." 

Throop  extended  a  big  paw  in  a  gesture  of  admira 
tion  and  his  throat  needed  clearing  before  he  spoke. 
"You're  all  right!7'  he  said.  "Hans  is  in  big  luck  to 
have  you  on  his  side." 

She  submitted  to  his  grip  with  a  fine  glow  in  her  face. 
"I  must  be  on  his  side,  for  he  has  been  on  my  side  all 
along.  He  was  the  one  soul  in  all  this  land  that  I 
could  trust." 

Throop 's  statement  concerning  Rawlins  was  right. 
To  put  up  a  thousand-dollar  bond  was  a  serious  matter. 
It  meant  pledging  his  whole  fortune,  and  the  case  was 
made  the  more  serious  by  reason  of  the  probable  dis 
approval  of  the  district  office,  and  yet  he  liked  Hanscom 
too  well  not  to  do  all  he  could  for  him.  Hanscom,  who 
realized  quite  clearly  his  former  chief's  predicament, 
urged  him  not  to  sign. 

"The  office  won't  like  it,  Jack — especially  as  I  have 
quit  the  work." 

They  were  in  the  midst  of  a  heated  discussion  of  this 
point  (in  Throop's  office)  when  the  sheriff  returned  from  his 
interview  with  Helen.  He  entered  wearing  a  broad  smile. 

372 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

"I've  got  something  for  you,  Mr.  Supervisor.  I've 
got  you  a  date  with  the  handsomest  girl  in  the  county." 

Rawlins  remained  calm.  "There's  only  one  girl  in 
the  world  for  me,  and  she's  in  Cambria,  getting 
supper  for  me.  However,  I'm  interested.  Who  is  the 
lady?" 

Throop  dropped  his  humorous  mask.  ' '  Miss  McLaren 
wants  to  see  you.  She's  fairly  anxious  about  Hans — 
wants  to  go  on  his  bond  with  you,  or  instead  of  you." 

Hanscom  gazed  at  the  sheriff  in  silence,  but  Rawlins 
exclaimed:  "Bless  the  girl!  That's  fine  of  her,  but  does 
she  realize  what  going  on  this  bond  means?" 

"She  does,  and  she's  willing  to  back  Hans  with  two 
thousand  dollars  if  necessary." 

Rawlins,  frankly  astonished,  asked:  "Two  thousand 
dollars!  Has  she  got  it?" 

"She  has,  and  a  good  deal  more.  Willing  of  the 
First  National  has  been  in  touch  with  her  people  back 
East,  and  apparently  there's  no  end  to  what  they're 
ready  to  do  for  her.  Somebody,  a  brother  or  cousin, 
has  come  to  her  rescue  like  a  savings-bank.  Hans,  you 
do  beat  the  devil  for  luck.  I  was  ready  to  congratulate 
you  before — now  I  am  just  plumb,  low-down  envious." 

So  far  from  filling  the  forester  with  joy,  this  news 
threw  him  into  dark  despair.  If  Helen  turned  out  to 
be  rich  his  case  was  even  more  hopeless  than  he  had 
imagined  it  to  be.  It  was  sweet  to  be  so  defended,  so 
rescued,  but  it  was  also  disheartening.  With  wealth 
added  to  the  grace  which  he  adored  in  her,  she  was  lifted 
far  beyond  his  reach. 

"Don't  let  her  go  on  the  bond,"  he  said  at  last;  "it's 
splendid  of  her,  but  if  she  does  that  she  will  be  kept 
here,  and  I  know  she  is  crazy  to  get  away,  and  we  must 
not  let  her  any  deeper  into  this  muss  of  mine." 

373 


THEY  OF   THE   HIGH   TRAILS 

Rawlins  rose.  "Well,  I'll  go  see  her,  anyway.  I'm 
for  letting  her  help  out  if  she's  able  and  feels  like  it." 

Throop  followed  him  out  and  down  the  walk.  "That 
girl's  getting  terribly  interested  in  Hans — and  she  has 
a  right  to  be.  No  man  could  have  put  in  better  work 
for  a  woman  than  he  did  for  her.  She  says  it's  all  her 
fault — and  so  it  is,  in  a  way."  He  chuckled.  "Rather 
dashes  him  to  find  out  she's  a  moneyed  person,  don't 
it?  But  what's  the  odds?  He  needn't  complain,  if  she 
don't." 

Helen's  deepening  interest  in  the  forester  expressed 
itself  in  the  pleasure  she  took  in  discussing  with  Rawlins 
the  means  of  setting  him  free. 

"All  you  have  to  do,"  the  supervisor  explained,  "is 
to  appear  before  the  judge,  deposit  a  certified  check, 
and  sign  the  paper  which  the  law  demands." 

" Let  us  go  at  once,"  she  said.  "My  father  is  sleeping 
now  and  the  housekeeper  will  sit  with  him.  I  can  slip 
away  for  an  hour." 

"The  sooner  the  quicker,"  agreed  Rawlins. 

While  she  was  gone  on  a  cautious  inspection  of  the 
sick-room  a  messenger-boy  came  to  the  door  with  a 
telegram.  "Gee!  but  the  company  is  doing  business 
to-day!"  he  remarked  to  Rawlins,  with  a  grin.  "Here's 
another  fat  one." 

Rawlins  gently  pushed  him  into  the  hall.  "That  '11 
do  for  you,  son,"  he  said.  "Fat  or  thin,  you  deliver 
your  goods  and  keep  still." 

The  message  was  indeed  a  "fat  one,"  and  came, 
Helen  said,  from  a  sister  in  Chicago,  and  expressed  great 
anxiety  to  know  exactly  what  conditions  were.  "Do 
you  need  me?"  the  writer  demanded.  "If  you  do,  I 
will  start  at  once.  Let  us  hear  from  you.  We  are  all 
very  anxious." 

374 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

Though  visibly  affected  by  this  appeal,  Helen's  reply 
was  brief.  "No  need  of  you.  I  am  well  and  returning 
East  soon.  Have  all  I  need." 

This  she  handed  in  to  the  operator  herself  as  she  and 
Rawlins  were  on  the  way  to  Judge  Brinkley's  office; 
and  then  with  the  thought  of  possibly  getting  away  in 
a  day  or  two  she  asked  of  Rawlins:  "When  will  Mr. 
Hanscom's  trial  come  off?" 

"Not  for  several  weeks,  I  fear,  unless  we  can  do  some 
thing  to  have  it  put  forward.  You  see,  they've  all  con 
spired  to  make  it  a  case  for  the  County  Court,  but  the 
judge  may  be  able  to  throw  it  back  into  the  Justice 
Court,  where  it  really  belongs.  At  the  worst,  Hans 
should  only  be  fined,  but,  of  course,  we  can't  say  a 
word.  We  can  only  wait  till  the  hearing." 

A  few  hours  ago  she  would  have  been  fiercely  impatient 
at  this  prospect  of  delay,  but  now,  most  strangely,  she 
found  herself  accepting,  without  protest,  a  further  stay 
in  the  town,  for  it  came  as  a  part  of  her  pledged  service 
in  the  aid  of  an  unselfish  young  man,  and  she  was  defi 
nitely,  distinctly  moved  at  the  thought  of  helping  him. 

"By  the  way,  Mr.  Rawlins,  I  notice  you  call  Mr. 
Hanscom  Hans.  Is  that  his  Christian  name?" 

"Oh  no,  that's  only  his  nickname.  He  signs  his  re 
ports  L.  J.  Hanscom.  I  think  his  real  name  is  Lawrence. 
I  don't  know  why  everybody  calls  him  'Hans' — prob 
ably  because  he  is  so  friendly  and  helpful.  Everybody 
likes  him  except  that  Shellfish  Valley  crowd,  and  they 
feel,  I  suppose,  that  I  put  him  down  here  to  keep  tab 
on  them,  which  is  the  fact.  They're  a  nest  of  bad  ones 
— a  lot  of  hold-overs  from  the  past — and  would  have 
frozen  him  out  long  ago  if  they  could." 

Knowing  the  ranger's  first  name  seemed  to  bring  him 
still  nearer,  and  she  began  to  feel  a  little  uneasy  about 

25  375 


THEY    OF    THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

the  way  in  which  he  might  take  her  share  in  his  liberation. 
"Suppose  he  should  misread  it!" 

On  the  street  corner  near  the  judge's  office  they  en 
countered  a  dozen  men,  grouped  around  a  small,  dark, 
middle-aged  citizen  with  very  black  hair,  a  long  mus 
tache,  and  a  fumed-oak  complexion,  who  seemed  to  be 
monologuing  for  the  enlightenment  of  the  crowd.  He 
looked  like  a  Mexican,  or  some  exile  from  the  south  of 
Europe,  and  as  Helen  and  Rawlins  paused  for  a  moment 
they  heard  him  say  in  a  voice  of  pathetic  softness:  "I 
blame  nobody  but  heem,  Hart  Busby.  He  steal  my  girl 
away.  I  have  no  fight  with  any  one  else." 

This  was  the  dreaded  Cuneo,  the  father  of  Margarita, 
whose  coming  promised  death  to  the  ranger!  The 
imaginary  savage  with  ready  knife,  the  infuriated  giant 
with  blazing  eyes,  gave  place  to  the  actuality  of  this 
gentle,  stricken;  melancholy  little  sheepherder,  who  had 
no  insane  desire  to  avenge  himself  on  any  one,  much  less 
on  Hanscom.  Helen's  resolution  to  meet  and  placate  the 
dreaded  Basque  gave  place  to  pity  and  a  sense  of  relief. 

Rawlins  viewed  the  matter  humorously  and  laughed 
softly.  "Hans  needn't  worry  about  that  little  mongrel." 

"He  has  suffered — he  is  suffering  now,"  Helen  replied. 
"I  wish  he  might  have  his  girl  and  take  her  home." 

Judge  Brinkley's  chambers  consisted  of  two  large 
rooms  stacked  with  law-books  to  the  ceiling,  and  in  the 
outer  one  a  couple  of  rough-looking  men  and  a  dis 
couraged-looking  little  woman  were  sitting,  waiting  for 
an  interview.  Ordinarily  Helen  would  have  passed  the 
woman  without  a  second  thought;  now  she  wondered 
what  her  legal  troubles  might  be. 

The  judge  gave  precedence  to  Helen  and  the  super 
visor  and  invited  them  to  his  private  office  at  once. 
Although  he  had  some  inkling  of  the  romantic  attach- 

376 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

ment  between  the  ranger  and  this  fine  young  woman, 
he  did  not  presume  upon  it  in  any  way,  even  in  his 
answer  to  her  questions. 

"I  hardly  think  a  serious  case  can  be  made  out 
against  Hanscom,"  he  said,  "but  you  will  soon  know, 
for  a  preliminary  hearing  will  be  granted  within  a  day 
or  two.  Meanwhile,"  he  added,  "I  am  very  glad  to 
issue  an  order  for  his  liberation  on  bond." 

Helen  thanked  him  most  warmly,  and,  with  the  writ 
of  release  in  hand,  Rawlins  asked  if  she  would  not  like 
to  present  it  to  the  sheriff  himself.  At  first  she  declined, 
thinking  of  her  own  embarrassment,  but  as  she  recalled 
the  unhesitating  action  with  which  Hanscom  had  always 
acted  in  her  affairs,  she  changed  her  mind  and  consented, 
and  with  her  consent  came  a  strong  desire  to  let  him 
know  that  her  gratitude  had  in  it  something  personal. 
Secretly  she  acknowledged  a  wish  to  see  his  rugged, 
serious  face  light  up  with  the  relief  which  the  release 
would  bring.  His  mouth,  she  remembered,  was  singu 
larly  refined  and  his  smile  winning. 

On  the  way  Rawlins  spoke  of  Hanscom's  resignation 
in  terms  of  sincere  regret.  "If  he  will  only  stay  in  the 
service,  I  am  sure  he  will  be  promoted;  but  I  cannot 
blame  him  for  feeling  lonely." 

At  the  jail  door  Helen's  self-consciousness  increased 
mightily.  Her  resolution  almost  failed  her. 

"What  will  he  think  of  me  coming  to  him  in  this  way?" 
was  the  question  which  disturbed  her,  and  she  was  deep 
ly  flushed  and  her  pulse  quickened  as  Rawlins,  quite 
unconscious  of  her  sudden  panic,  led  the  way  into  the 
sheriff's  office  and  with  eager  haste  presented  her  to 
Throop,  who  greeted  her  with  the  smile  and  gesture  of 
an  old  acquaintance. 

The  supervisor  lost  no  time.  "We've  come  on  busi- 
377 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH    TRAILS 

ness,"  he  said.  "We  want  Hanscom,  Mr.  Sheriff.  This 
young  lady  has  gone  on  his  bond  in  my  stead,  and  here 
is  an  order  for  his  release,  signed  by  Judge  Brinkley." 

Throop  was  genuinely  pleased.  "Hah!  I'm  glad  of 
that,"  he  said,  as  he  took  the  paper.  After  a  moment's 
glance  at  it  he  said:  "All  right,  you  can  have  the  body. 
Go  into  the  parlor  and  I'll  send  him  in  to  you." 

Helen  obeyed  silently,  knowing  that  Rawlins  would 
remain  in  the  office — which  he  did — leaving  her  to  re 
ceive  the  ranger  alone. 

He  came  in  with  eyes  alight  with  worship.  "I'm 
heartily  obliged  to  you,"  he  said,  boyishly.  "I  thought 
I  was  in  for  a  week  or  two  of  cell  life  and  reflection." 

She  met  his  gratitude  with  instant  protest.  "Please 
don't  thank  me;  I  am  only  repaying  a  little  of  our  debt. 
Won't  you  be  seated?"  she  added,  acting  the  part  of 
hostess  in  her  embarrassment.  "Of  course  I  don't  mean 
that.  You  must  be  anxious  to  leave  this  place." 

"I  was,  but  I'm  not  so  anxious  now.  How  is  Mr. 
Kauffman?" 

"Much  easier.     He  was  sleeping  when  I  left." 

"I'm  glad  of  that.  He's  had  a  hard  week,  and  so 
have  you,  and  yet"--  he  hesitated — "you  are  looking 
well  in  spite  of  it  all." 

"That  is  the  strange  part  of  it,"  she  admitted.  "I 
am  stronger  and  happier  than  I  have  been  for  two  years. 
I  have  just  heard  from  my  family  in  the  East." 

His  eyes  became  grave.  "Then  you  will  go  back 
to  them?" 

"  I  think  so,  but  not  at  once — not  till  after  your  trial — 
it  would  be  grossly  ungrateful  for  me  to  go  now.  I  shall 
wait  till  you  are  free." 

His  fine,  clear,  serious  eyes  were  steadily  fixed  upon 
her  face  as  she  said  this,  and  she  knew  that  he  was 

378 


THE    FOREST    RANGER 

extracting  from  every  word  and  tone  their  full  meaning, 
and  it  frightened  her  a  little. 

At  last  he  said,  in  a  voice  which  was  tense  with  emo 
tion,  "Then  I  hope  I  shall  never  be  free." 

She  hastened  to  lessen  this  tension.  "The  judge  has 
promised  to  grant  you  a  hearing  soon.  Mr.  Rawlins 
thinks  it  only  a  case  for  Justice  Court,  anyway."  She 
rose.  "But  let  me  see  Mrs.  Throop  for  a  few  minutes 
and  then  we  will  go." 

"Wait  a  moment,"  he  pleaded,  but  she  would  not 
stay  her  course — she  dared  not. 

They  found  Mrs.  Throop  in  the  hall,  discussing  the 
interesting  situation  with  Rawlins,  and  when  Helen  ex 
tended  her  hand  and  began  to  thank  her  again  for  her 
kindness,  the  matron  cut  her  short.  "Never  mind 
that  now.  I  want  you  should  all  stay  to  supper." 

Helen  expressed  regret  and  explained  that  it  was 
necessary  to  return  to  the  bedside  of  her  father,  and  so 
they  managed  to  get  away,  although  Mrs.  Throop  fol 
lowed  them  to  the  door,  inviting  them  both  to  come 
again.  She  saw  no  humor  in  this,  though  the  men 
had  their  joke  about  it. 

Rawlins  discreetly  dropped  back  into  the  office,  and 
the  two  young  people  passed  on  into  the  street. 

"You  must  let  me  watch  with  your  father  to-night," 
Hanscom  said.  "I've  been  a  nurse — along  with  the 
rest  of  my  experiences." 

"If  I  need  you  I  shall  certainly  call  upon  you,  and  if 
you  need  money  you  must  call  upon  me." 

There  was  something  warmer  than  friendship  in  her 
voice,  but  the  ranger  was  a  timid  man  in  any  matter 
involving  courtship,  and  he  dared  not  presume  on  any 
thing  so  vague  as  the  change  of  a  tone  or  the  quality 
of  a  smile.  Nevertheless  he  said: 

379 


THEY   OF   THE    HIGH   TRAILS 

"I  cannot  imagine  how  it  happens  that  you  are  here 
in  this  rough  country,  but  I  am  glad  you  are.  I  shall 
be  glad  all  my  life — even  if  you  go  away  and  forget 
me." 

"I  shall  not  forget  you,"  she  replied,  "not  for  what 
you've  done,  but  for  what  you  are."  And  in  this  declara 
tion  lay  a  profound  significance  which  the  man  seized 
and  built  upon. 

"I  am  not  even  a  forest  ranger  now.  I  am  nothing 
but  a  dub — and  you — they  say  are  rich — but  some  day 
I'm  going  to  be  something  else.  I  haven't  any  right- 
to  ask  anything  of  you — not  a  thing,  but  I  must — I 
can't  think  of  you  going  entirely  out  of  my  life.  I  want 
you  to  let  me  write  to  you.  May  I  do  that?" 

Her  answer  was  unexpected.  "You  once  spoke  of 
getting  a  transfer  to  a  forest  near  Denver.  If  you  should 
do  that,  you  might  see  me  occasionally — for  I  may 
make  my  home  in  Colorado  Springs." 

He  stopped  and  they  faced  each  other.  "Does  that 
mean  that  you  want  me  to  stay  in  the  service?" 

Her  face  was  pale,  but  her  eyes  were  glowing.     "Yes." 

His  glance  penetrated  deeper.  "And  you  will  wait 
for  me?" 

"As  long  as  you  think  it  necessary,"  she  answered, 
with  a  smile  whose  meaning  did  not  at  once  make  itself 
felt,  but  when  it  did  he  reached  his  hand  as  one  man 
to  another.  She  took  it,  smiling  up  at  him  in  full 
understanding  of  the  promise  she  had  made. 

"Right  here  I  make  a  new  start,"  he  said. 

"I  shall  begin  a  new  life  also,"  she  replied,  and  they 
walked  on  in  silence. 


380 


AFTERWORD 

TljAVE  you  seen  sunsets  so  beautiful  that  your  heart 
JL  JL  ached  to  watch  them  fade?  So  my  heart  aches  to 
see  the  trails  fading  from  the  earth. 

As  I  re-enter  the  mountain  forest  I  am  a  reactionary. 
I  would  restore  every  hill-stream  to  its  former  beauty  if  I 
could.  I  would  carry  forward  every  sign,  every  symbol, 
of  the  border  in  order  that  the  children  of  the  future  should 
not  be  deprived  of  any  part  of  their  nation  s  epic  west 
ward  march. 

I  here  make  acknowledgment  to  the  trail  and  the  trail- 
makers.  They  have  taught  me  much.  I  have  lifted  the 
latch-string  of  the  lonely  shack,  and  broken  bread  with 
the  red  hunter.  I  know  the  varied  voices  of  the  coyote, 
wizard  of  the  mesa.  The  trail  has  strung  upon  it,  as 
upon  a  silken  cord,  opalescent  dawns  and  ruby  sunsets. 
My  camping-places  return  in  the  music  of  gold  and  amber 
streams.  The  hunter,  the  miner,  the  prospector,  have  been 
my  companions  and  my  tutors — and  what  they  have 
given  me  I  hold  with  jealous  hand. 

The  hi-gh  trail  leads  away  to  shadow-dappled  pools.  It 
enables  me  to  overtake  the  things  vanishing,  to  enter  the 
deserted  cabin,  to  bend  to  the  rude  fireplace  and  to  blozo 
again  upon  the  embers,  gray  with  ashes,  till  a  flame  leaps 
out  and  shadows  of  mournful  beauty  dance  upon  the  wall. 

I  am  glad  that  I  was  born  early  enough  to  hear  the  songs 
of  the  trailers  and  to  bask  in  the  light  of  their  fires. 


381 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 
o,  on  d.  d 


end  rf  FALL  Q,,..,., 
sub/'ect  '  nrr     •> 


7? 


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